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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

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littp://www.arcliive.org/details/beyonddreamsofavOObesa 


BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 


a  mover 


J 


BY 


WALTER  BESANT 

AUTHOR  OP 

■  ALL  SORTS  AND  CONDITIONS  OF  MEN  "    "  CHILDREN  OF  GIBEON  " 
"  TUE    REBEL    QUEEN  "    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YOKK 

IIAKPKU    A:    J5]JUTIIP:KS    PUBLISHERS 

1895 


Copyright,  18'J5,  by  Harper  k  Drothers 
All  rights  reserved. 


?K 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    A    SURPRISE    AND    AX    INJUNCTION* 1 

II.    A    PACKET    OF    PAPERS     .       ,      '. 7 

III.  "the   child    is   dead" 13 

IV.  AN    inquest    of    OFFICE 19 

V.    THE    FORTUNE    AND    THE    HOUSE 20 

VI.    THE    NURSERY , 32 

VII.    THE    PRODIGAL   SON 40 

VIII.    THE    PORTRAITS 44 

IX.    THE    PRESS    UPON    WINDFALLS 55 

X.    ARE    WE    COUSINS  ? 66 

XI.    VOUTH    IN    A    GARRET 78 

XII.    "  AUNT    LUCINDA  " 90 

XIII.  THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS 101 

XIV.  A    VISIT   TO   THE    TREASURY 112 

XV.    HUNDREDS    OF    CLAIMANTS 123 

XVI.    THE    .MISSING    LINK 129 

XVII.    THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE    CLOUD 135 

XVIII.    THE    BOX    OF    ACCOUNT-BOOKS 142 

XIX.    CALVERT    BURLEY's    ACCOUNT    OF   THE    MATTER       .       .  14S 

XX,    LUCIAN    ON    THE    DOCUMENT 159 

XXI.    LUCINDA    AVERY 162 

XXII.    THE    AUSTRALIANS 174 

XXIII.    THE    FIRST    PATIENT 185 


91 


■O- 


IV  CONTENTS 

rllAPTER  I-AOK 

XXIV.  IIERnEKT    AND    THE    PORTRAITS 195 

XXV.  WHO  AM   1  ? 202 

XXVI.  A    SHAKY    I'AKTXERSII  IP 208 

XXVII.  THE    GENEALOGIST 217 

,  XXVIII.  A  physician's  advice 229 

XXIX.  THE    miracle 237 

XXX.  "  CONFESS    YE    YOTR    SINS  " 243 

XXXI.  "IMPOSSIBLE   TO    BK    FOUND    OUT  !" 250 

XXXII.  THE    SHAME    OF    IT  ! 259 

XXXIII.  THE    STORY    OF    A    DREAM 2G4 

XXXIV.  ANOTHER    DREAM    OF    DEAD    MOTHERS 273 

XXXV.  FAREWELL  I 284 

XXXVI.  TxIE    LAST    REMONSTRANCE 295 

XXXVII.  A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE 298 

XXXVIII.  WHAT    THE    PRESS    SAID 309 

XXXIX.  EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE      .       .       .       .318 

XL.  THE    NOBLER    WAY 329 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"'there!    he  has  given  in'" Frontispiece 

"  '  REST,    FATHER,'    SAID    THE     SON,    TOUCHING     THE    SICK    MAN's 

PULSE " Facing  paijc  4 

"'the    HOCSE-KEEPER   took   us   up   TO    THE   FIRST    FLOOR'"      .       .  "28 

"  '  BEHOLD    HIM  !    HE    STANDS    BEFORE    YOU  '  " "            64 

"MARGARET    RAN    IN    WITH    A    LIGHT    HEART" "          102 

"  '  AUNTIE,     we've    (iOT    EXACTLY     THREE    POUNDS     TEN    SHILLINGS 

AND    sixpence'" "          114 

in  the  old  cathedral "   138 

"'you  all  have  the  same  face'" "   166 

"and  arranged  the  mesmeric  smile" "   208 

"  '  I    HAVE    come    to    carry    YOU    AWAY  '  " "          242 

"ELLA    TOOK    HER    HAND    AND    KISSED    IT " "          260 

"a    STRANGE,  WEIRD   PICTURE   SHE    MADE" "         280 


BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 


CHAPTER    I 
A    SURPRISE    AND    AN    INJUNCTION 

"  LuciAN  !"  The  sick  man  was  propped  up  by  pillows.  His 
bands  lay  folded  outside  the  coverings.  All  that  could  be  seen 
of  a  face  covered  with  an  iron-gray  beard  was  deathly  pale.  His 
deep-set  eyes  were  bright.  His  square,  strong  brow,  under  a 
mass  of  black  hair  hardly  touched  with  gray,  was  pale.  "  Lu- 
cian,  I  say,"  His  voice  was  strong  and  firm,  although  the 
patient  repose  of  his  head  and  hands  showed  that  movement 
was  either  difficult  or  impossible.  "  Lucian,  it  is  no  use  trying 
to  deceive  me." 

"  I  do  not  try  to  deceive  you.     There  is  always  hope." 

"  I  have  none.  Sit  down  now  and  let  us  talk  quietly.  It 
is  the  last  chance,  very  likely,  and  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say. 
Sit  down,  my  son — there — so  that  I  may  see  you." 

The  son  obeyed.  He  placed  a  chair  by  the  bedside  and  sat 
down.  He  was  a  young  man  about  seven-and-twenty  years  of 
age.  He  had  the  same  square  forehead  as  his  father,  and  the 
same  deep-set  bright  black  eyes ;  the  same  straight  black  eye- 
brows. His  face  was  beardless ;  the  features  were  strong  and 
clearly  cut ;  it  was  a  face  of  resolution  :  not  what  girls  call  a 
handsome  face,  but  a  face  of  intellectual  power,  a  responsible 
face,  a  masterful  face.  His  broad  .shoulders  and  tall,  strong 
figure  increased  the  sense  of  personal  force  which  accompanied 
the  presence  of  Lucian  Calvert. 


2  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  The  weakest  point  about  human  knowledge,"  said  the  sick 
man,  philosophizing  from  habit,  "  is  that  we  never  seem  to  make 
any  real  advance  in  keeping  the  machinery  in  order,  or  in  set- 
ting it  right  when  it  gets  wrong."  He  was  a  mechanical  en- 
gineer by  calling,  and  of  no  mean  reputation.  "  When  the 
macliinery  goes  wrong,  the  works  stop.  Then  we  have  to  throw 
away  the  engine.  She  can't  be  repaired.  Why  don't  you  learn 
how  to  tinker  it  up,  you  doctors?" 

The  son,  who  was  a  physician,  sliook  his  head. 

"  We  do  our  best,"  he  said.     "  But  we  are  only  beginning." 

"  Why  don't  you  learn  how  to  set  the  thing  going  again  ? 
Lot  the  machine  run  down,  and  then  take  it  to  pieces  and  mend 
it.  Get  up  steam  again,  and  then  run  her  for  another  spell. 
That's  what  you  ought  to  do,  Lucian." 

"  You  are  talking  like  yourself  again,  father." 

"  I  suppose,"  he  went  on,  "  that  if  men  had  by  their  own  wit 
invented  this  machine  of  the  body,  if  they  had  built  it  up,  bit  by 
bit,  as  we  fellows  have  done  with  our  engines,  they  would  un- 
derstand the  thing  better.  As  it  is,  we  must  pay  for  ignorance. 
A  man  finds  he  has  got  to  die  at  fifty-five  because  the  doctors 
know  nothing  but  symptoms.  Fifty-five !  In  the  very  middle 
of  one's  work !  It's  disgusting.  Just  beginning,  so  to  speak, 
and  all  his  knowledge  wasted — gone — dissipated — unless,  some- 
how, there's  the  conservation  of  intellectual  energy." 

"  Perhaps  there  is,"  said  his  son.  "  As  you  say,  we  under- 
stand little  more  than  symptoms,  which  is  the  reason  why  there 
is  always  hope." 

But  he  spoke  without  assurance. 

"  Never  mind  myself,"  the  father  replied.  "  About  you, 
Lucian." 

"  Don't  think  about  me  ;  I  shall  do  very  well." 

"  I  must  think  about  you,  my  dear  boy,  because  it  is  impos- 
sible to  think  about  myself.  Last  night  I  had  a  dream.  I  was 
floating  in  dark  space,  with  nothing  to  think  about.  And  it 
was  maddening.  I  don't  suppose  that  death  means  that.  Well, 
I  shall  learn  what  it  means  in  a  day  or  two.  There's  the  money 
question.  I  never  tried  to  save  money.  I  was  set  dead  again.st 
saving  quite  early  in  life.  Had  good  reason  to  hate  and  loathe 
savijig.      But  I   believe  that  Tum  Nicholson  has  got  something 


A    SURPRISE    AND    AN    INJUNCTION  3 

of  mine — sometliing  that  rolled  in — and  there's  your  mother's 
money.     You  won't  starve.     And  you've  got  your  profession." 

"  I  shall  do,  sir." 

"  I  think  you  will.  I've  always  thought  you  would.  You've 
got  it  written  on  your  face.  If  you  keep  your  eyes  in  the  right 
direction — in  the  direction  of  work — you'll  do  very  well.  You 
will  either  go  up  steadily  or  you  will  go  down  swiftly.  It  is 
the  gutter  or  the  topmost  round  for  you." 

He  paused.  The  exertion  of  talking  was  too  great  for  his 
strength. 

"  Rest,  father,"  said  the  son,  touching  the  sick  man's  pulse. 
"  Rest,  and  talk  again  to-morrow." 

"Who  will  talk  with  me  to-morrow?  Wait  a  moment,  Lu- 
cian.  Lift  my  head.  So,  That's  better.  I  breathe  again. 
Now — as  soon  as  I  am  buried,  you  must  communicate  the  news 
of  my  death — to  my  father." 

"  To  whom  ?"  Lucian  started.  He  thought  his  father  was 
off  his  head. 

"  To  my  father,  Lucian.  I  have  never  told  you  tliat  I  have 
a  father  still  living." 

Imagine,  dear  reader.  This  young  man  had  lived  seven-and- 
twenty  years  in  the  world,  and  always  in  the  belief  that  his 
father  was  an  only  child,  and  that  his  grandfather  was  dead, 
and  that  there  were  no  cousins,  or  if  any,  then  perhaps  cousins 
not  desirable.  If  you  remember  this,  you  may  perhaps  under- 
stand the  amazement  of  this  young  man.  He  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  bent  over  the  sick  man.  No ;  his  eyes  were  steady.  There 
was  no  outward  sie^n  of  wanderinir. 

"  My  fatlier,  Lucian,"  he  repeated.  "  I  am  not  delirious,  I 
assure  you." 

"Your  father?  Why?  Where  is  he  ?  What  is  he  ?  Is  he 
— perhaps — poor  ?" 

"  He  is  a  very  old  man  ;  he  is  over  ninety  years  of  age.  And 
he  is  not  poor  at  all.  His  poverty  is  not  Lhc  reason  wliy  yon 
have  never  heard  of  him." 

"  Oh  1    Tlien,  why—" 

"  Patience,  my  son.  He  is  neither  poor  nor  obscure.  lie  is 
famous;  in  fact,  so  famous  that  I  resolved  to  begin  the  world 
for  myself   without   his  reputation    on    my   back.       A    })arent's 


4  DEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

greatness  may  liamper  a  younor  man  at  tlie  outset.  So  I  left 
him." 

"  His  reputation  ?  We  are,  then,  connected  with  a  man  of 
reputation."     But  Lucian  spoke  dubiously. 

"  You  arc,  as  you  will  shortly,  perhaps,  discover.  I  suppose 
he  no  longer  follows  his  profession,  being  now  so  old." 

"  What  profession  ?" 

"  Destruction  and  Ruin,"  replied  the  sick  man,  shortly. 

"  Oh  !"  His  son  asked  no  further  questions.  Perhaps  lie 
felt  that  to  learn  more  would  make  him  no  happier.  A  strange 
profession,  however,  "  Destruction  and  Ruin." 

"  I  changed  my  name  when  I  left  the  family  home.  So  that 
you  have  no  ancestors,  fortunately,  except  myself.  You  are 
like  Seth,  the  son  of  Adam." 

"  No  ancestors?    But  we  must  have  ancestors." 

"  If  you  want  to  learn  all  about  them,  you  can,  Tom  Nichol- 
son knows.  Tom  Nicholson,  the  lawyer — he  knows.  He  has 
got  some  papers  of  mine,  that  I  drew  up  a  long  time  ago.  It 
might  be  better  for  you  to  go  on  in  ignorance.  On  the  other 
hand — well,  choose  for  yourself.  Read  the  papers,  if  you  like, 
and  find  out  what  manner  of  people  your  ancestors  were.  Nich- 
olson will  give  you  your  grandfather's  address.  Tell  him,  with- 
out revealing  yourself  or  the  name  that  I  have  borne — or  your 
own  relation  to  me — tell  him  simply  that  I  am  dead." 

"  Very  well,  sir.     I  will  do  what  you  desire." 

"  One  thing  more.  It  is  my  earnest  wish — I  do  not  com- 
mand, my  son  ;  no  man,  not  even  a  father,  has  the  right  to 
command  another — but  it  is  my  wish  that  you  may  never  be 
invited  or  tempted  to  resume  the  name  that  I  abandoned,  or  to 
claim  kin  with  any  of  the  family  which  I  have  renounced,  or 
to  take  one  single  farthing  of  the  fortune  which  your  ancestors 
have  amassed.  Our  money  has  been  the  curse  of  us  for  two 
hundred  years.  You  may  learn,  if  you  please,  from  Tom  Nich- 
olson the  history  of  the  family.  From  father  to  son — from 
father  to  son.  It  was  got  by  dishonor ;  it  has  been  increased 
and  multiplied  by  dislionor;  it  has  been  attended  with  dislionor. 
Fraud  and  crime,  madness,  selfishness,  hardness  of  lieart — piti- 
less liardness  of  heart — have  gone  with  it.  Lucian,  when  you 
have  learned  the  history  of  your  ancestors,  you  will  understand 


A    SURPRISE    AND    AN    INJUNCTION  5 

why  I  left  the  house  full  of  wretched  memories  and  renounced 
them  all.  And  if  I  judge  you  aright,  you  will  be  ready  to  re- 
nounce them,  too." 

"  I  shall  remember  your  wish,  sir,"  said  his  son,  grave- 
ly. "  But  I  do  not  understand  how  the  question  of  money 
can  arise,  since  your  father  is  in  ignorance  of  my  very  exist- 
ence." 

"  Best  so  ;  best  so,"  said  the  sick  man.  "  Then  you  cannot 
be  tempted." 

For  one  so  weak  this  long  conversation  was  a  great  efEort. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  spoke  no  more. 

The  young  man  sat  down  again  and  watched.  But  he  was 
strangely  agitated.  What  did  his  father  mean  ?  What  kind 
of  profession  was  that  which  could  be  described  as  Destruction 
and  Ruin  ? 

Nothing  more  was  said  upon  the  subject  at  all,  for  the  ma- 
chinery proved  so  much  out  of  gear  that  it  suddenly  stopped. 
And  as  no  one  could  possibly  set  it  going  again,  there  was 
nothing  left  but  to  put  away  the  engine  in  the  place  where 
people  put  away  all  the  broken  engines. 

When  the  funeral  was  over,  the  two  principal  mourners, 
Lucian  Calvert  and  a  certain  Mr.  Nicholson,  old  friend  and 
legal  adviser  of  his  father,  above  referred  to  as  Tom,  drove 
away  together.     They  went  back  to  the  house. 

"  Now,"  said  Lucian,  "  tell  me  things.  All  I  know  is  that  n)y 
name  is  not  Calvert,  and  that  my  grandfather  is  still  living." 

"That  is  all  you  know,  is  it?  Well,  Lucian,  in  my  opinion 
you  know  too  much  for  your  own  happiness  already.  I  ad- 
vised your  father  to  keep  you  in  ignorance.  I  saw  that  you 
would  get  on,  as  he  had  done,  without  the  help  of  money  or 
the  hinderance  of  connections.  But  he  thought  you  ought  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  knowing  everything  if  you  choose." 

"  Certainly,  I  do  choose." 

"  Well,  then,  your  father  was  my  oldest  friend.  Wc  were 
boys  together,  at  Westminster  School.  lie  was  unhappy  at 
home,  for  reasons  which  you  may  learn  if  you  like.  At  the  age 
of  seventeen  he  ran  away  from  home  and  fought  his  way  up 
through  the  engineering  shops.  His  name  was  not  John  Cal- 
vert, but  John  Calvert  Burloy." 


6  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  Burley  ?  My  name  is  Bnrloy,  then  ?  Go  on." 
"Your  grandfather  lives  in  Great  College  Street,  Westmin- 
ster. Your  father  never  had  any  communication  with  him  af- 
ter he  left  the  house."  Mr.  Nicholson  lugged  out  of  his  coat- 
pockgt  a  little  roll  of  papers.  "  Here  is  a  bundle  of  papers 
which  have  long  been  in  my  keeping.  They  contain-an  account 
of  the  Burley  family,  drawn  up  by  your  father  for  you.  There 
are  also  some  letters  and  memorials  of  his  mother  and  otliers, 
taken  from  her  desk  after  she  died.     And  that  is  all." 

"  You  have  told  me  nothing  at  all  about  the  Burley  people." 
"  No.     Read  the  papers  which  your  father  prepared  for  you, 
and  you  will  learn  all  you  want  to  learn,  and  perhaps  more." 

He  took  his  hat.  "  And,  Lucian,  if  you  choose  to  resume 
your  true  name  and  to  join  your  own  people,  I  will  look  through 
the  papers  for  you  and  communicate  with  your  grandfather. 
But  I  rather  think,  my  dear  boy,  that  you  w'ill  prefer  to  remain 
Lucian  Calvert.  Don't  change  your  name.  Far  better  to  be 
the  son  of  John  Calvert,  civil  engineer,  than  the  grandson  of 
John  Calvert  Burley.  Toss  the  papers  in  the  fire  when  you 
have  read  them,  and  think  no  more  about  the  matter." 

Lucian,  left  with  tlie  packet  of  papers,  handled  them  sus- 
piciously, looked  at  the  fireplace  in  which  there  was  no  fire, 
began  to  untie,  but  desisted.  Finally  he  put  the  roll  into  his 
pocket  and  sallied  forth,  lie  was  engaged — not  an  unusual 
thing  for  a  young  man — and  what  is  the  good  of  being  engaged 
if  you  cannot  put  a  disagreeable  task  upon  ihojiancee? 


CHAPTER  II 

A    PACKET    OF    PAPERS 

The  girl,  Margaret  by  name,  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  looking  up  at  her  lover  as  he  stood  over  her. 

It  has  never  yet  been  decided  whether  those  marriages  are 
the  happier  when  the  couple  are  alike  or  when  they  are  unlike 
in  what  we  call  essentials.  For  my  own  part,  I  think  that  the 
latter  marriage  presents  the  greater  chance  of  happiness,  if  only 
for  the  infinite  possibilities  of  unexpectedness ;  also  for  the  re- 
production of  the  father  in  the  daughter  and  the  mother  in  the 
son.  These  two  were  going  to  try  love  in  uulikencss.  The 
girl  w^as  fair  in  complexion,  with  blue  eyes  which  could  easily 
become  dreamy  and  were  always  luminous ;  there  was  at  the 
moment  the  sweet  seriousness  in  them  that  so  well  becomes 
a  beautiful  woman ;  she  was  a  tall  girl,  as  becomes  the  fash- 
ion of  the  time,  dressed  as  one  who  respects  her  own  beauty, 
and  would  become,  in  her  lover's  eyes,  as  attractive  as  she 
could;  a  strong  and  healthy  girl;  able  to  hold  her  own  yet, 
as  one  might  conclude  from  her  attitude  in  the  presence  of  her 
lover ;  one  who,  when  she  promised  to  give  herself,  meant  to 
give  everything,  and  already  had  no  thought  but  for  him.  As 
she  sat  under  him,  as  he  stood  over  her,  every  one  could  un- 
derstand here  was  man  masterful,  the  Lord  of  Creation,  and 
here  was  woman  obedient  to  the  man  she  loved ;  that  here  was 
man  creative,  and  here  was  woman  receptive ;  that  out  of  her 
submission  would  spring  up  her  authority.  What  more  can 
the  world  desire  ?     What  more  did  Nature  intend  ? 

"Now  that  everything  is  over,"  he  said,  "it  is  time  for  us  to 
talk  and  think  about  ourselves." 

"  Already,  Lucian  ?" 

"  Already.     The  dead   are   dead  ;    we   are  the  living.     His 


8  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

memory  will  live  awhile — longer  than  most  men's  memories, 
because  he  did  good  work.  \N'ith  us  his  memory  will  last  all 
our  lives.  Now,  Marjorie,  I  have  got  something  wonderful  to 
tell  you.     Listen  with  both  ears." 

He  took  a  chair  and  sat  down,  and  held  one  of  her  hands. 

"Both  ears  I  want.  Two  or  three  days  before  he  died,  my 
father  told  me  a  thing  which  greatly  amazed  me.  I  said  noth- 
ing to  you  about  it,  but  waited." 

"  What  was  it,  Lucian  ?" 

*'  After  the  funeral,  this  morning,  I  carae  away  with  Mr. 
Nicholson,  my  father's  old  friend  and  his  lawyer.  He  drove 
home  with  me  and  we  had  a  talk." 

Lucian  told  his  tale  and  produced  the  packet  of  papers. 

"  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  shrink  from  reading  these  docu- 
ments. If  I  were  superstitious,  I  should  think  that  the  read- 
ing of  the  document  would  bring  disaster.  That's  absurd,  of 
course.  But  it  is  certain  that  there  must  be  something  disa- 
greeable about  it — perhaps  something  shameful — why,  else,  did 
my  father  run  away  from  home  ?  Why  did  he,  as  he  said,  re- 
nounce his  ancestors  ?  Why  did  he  speak  of  a  fortune  created 
by  dishonor?  Why  did  he  say  that  my  grandfather's  profession 
was  '  Destruction  and  Ruin  '  ?" 

"'Destruction  and  Ruin!'  Did  he  say  that?  Destruction 
and  Ruin?  What  did  he  mean?  What  kind  of  profession  is 
that  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Now,  Madge,  this  is  the  position :  I  have 
never  had  any  cousins  at  all,  or  any  ancestors  on  my  father's 
side.  His  people  don't  know  of  my  existence,  even.  But  there 
is  in  this  packet  the  revelation  of  the  family  to  which  I  belong 
— to  which  you  \yill  belong.  They  may  be  disgraceful  people — 
probably  they  are." 

"  Since  they  do  not  know  of  your  existence,  it  is  evident  you 
need  not  tell  them  who  you  are." 

"  They  must  be  in  some  way  disreputable.  *  Destruction  and 
Ruin  !'  That  was  my  grandfather's  profession.  Do  you  think 
he  is  Napoleon  the  Great,  not  dead  after  all,  but  survivor  of  all 
his  generation  ?  '  Destruction  and  Ruin,'  "  he  laughed.  "  It 
would  make  an  attractive  advertisement,  a  handbill  for  distri- 
bution on  the  curb  outside  the  shop  door — '  Destruction  and 


A    PACKET    OF    PAPERS  9 

Ruin  !'  There's  your  heading  in  big  letters.  '  By  John  Cal- 
vert Burley !'  There's  your  second  line.  '  Destruction  and 
Ruin ' — this  is  where  your  circular  begins — '  Destruction  and 
Ruin  in  all  their  branches  undertaken  and  performed  with  the 
utmost  certainty,  secrecy,  and  despatch — and  on  reasonable 
terms.  The  Nobility  and  Gentry  waited  on  personally.  Every- 
body destroyed  completely.  Ruin  effected  in  the  most  thor- 
ough manner.  Destruction  superintended  from  the  office.  Re- 
covery hopeless.  Ruin,  moral,  material,  physical,  and  mental, 
guaranteed  and  executed  as  per  order.  Strictest  confidence. 
Customers  may  depend  on  being  satisfied  with  same.'  They 
always  say  •  same,'  you  know.  *  No  connection  with  any  other 
house.  Tackle  of  the  newest  and  most  destructive  kind  to  be 
had  on  the  Three  Years'  Hire  System,  Painless  Self-Destruc- 
tion  taught  in  six  lessons.     Terms — strictly  cash.'" 

"  Hush,  hush,  Lucian  !  Not  to  make  a  jest  of  it."  But  she 
laughed  gently. 

"  We  need  not  cry  over  it.  But — hang  it !  What  can  it  be 
— '  Destruction  and  Ruin  '  ?" 

"  Do  you  think — do  you  think — he  made  a  quack  medicine 
that  will  cure  everything?" 

"  Perhaps.  '  The  Perfect,  Pleasant,  and  Peremptory  Pill. 
Children  cry  for  it.  The  baby  won't  be  happy  till  he  gets  it.' 
Very  likely.     Or  he  may  be  a  Socialist." 

"Ye — yes; — or — do  you  think  he  is  a  solicitor  ?  Your  father 
always  hated  lawyers." 

"  I  don't  know  ; — or  the  proprietor  of  a  paper  on  the  other 
side  ?     He  was  a  great  Liberal." 

"Perhaps; — or  a  jerry  builder?  He  hated  bad  workmen  of 
all  kinds." 

"  Perhaps  ; — or  a  turncoat  politician  ?  Or  a  critic  ?  Or  a 
cheap  sausage  -  maker  ?  Or  the  advertiser  of  soap  ?  Or — " 
When  one  is  still  young  it  is  easy  to  turn  everything  into  ma- 
terial for  smiles,  if  not  laughter.  These  two  guessed  at  many 
things  for  a  profession  which  could  fitly  be  described  by  these 
two  words.     But  the  real  thing  did  not  occur  to  them. 

"  It  was  a  fat  profession,"  the  young  man  continued,  "  be- 
cause my  father  was  so  anxious  that  I  should  never  be  tempted 
to  take  part  in  the  fortune.     Since  my  existence  is  unknown,  it 


10  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

is  not  likely  that  the  temptation  will  arise.  I  wonder  what  it 
was  ?" 

"  You  wish  to  know  the  contents  of  those  papers  ?" 

"  Very  much." 

"  You  will  never  rest  till  you  do  know  them.  Well,  Lucian, 
let  me  read  them  for  yon.  Perhaps  you  need  not  inquire  any 
further.  Perhaps  your  curiosity  will  be  satisfied  with  a  single 
broad  fact.  It " — "  It  "  meant  the  profession — "  It  could  not 
have  been  so  very  disgraceful,  for  your  father  was  a  Westmin- 
ster scholar,  and  has  been  a  life-long  friend  of  Mr.  Nicholson,  a 
most  respectable  person." 

Lucian  gave  her  the  papers.  "  Take  them,  Madge.  Read 
them,  and  tell  me  this  evening  as  much  as  you  please  about 
them." 

In  the  evening  he  called  again.  Margaret  received  him  with 
a  responsible  face  and  a  manner  as  of  one  who  has  a  difficult 
duty  to  perform. 

"  Well,  Madge  ?     You  have  read  the  papers  ?" 

"  They  are  written  by  your  father.  Your  grandfather's  ad- 
dress is  77,  Great  College  Street,  Westminster,  and  his  name  is 
John  Calvert  Burley." 

"  Yes — so  much  I  knew  before.  And  the  wonderful  profes- 
sion ?" 

"  Lucian,  it  is  really  disagreeable.  Can't  you  let  the  matter 
just  rest  where  it  is  ?" 

*'  Not  now.  I  must  know  as  well  as  you.  What  ?  You  are 
to  be  burdened  with  disagreeable  discoveries  and  I  am  not  to 
know?  Call  this  the  Equality  of  Love?  What  about  that  pro- 
fession ?     What  about  Destruction  and  Ruin  ?" 

"My  dear  Lucian,  your  father  began  a  new  family.  You  may 
be  contented  with  him." 

"So  long  as  you  carry  it  on  with  me,"  said  her  lover,  with 
a  lover-like  illustration  of  the  sentiment,  "  I  shall  be  quite  con- 
tented. We  will  renounce  our  ancestors  and  all  their  works 
and  ways — their  fortunes  and  their  misfortunes.  But  who  they 
were,  and  who  they  are,  I  must  know.  Tell  me,  then,  first, 
what  is  that  profession  called  Destruction  and  Ruin  ?" 

"  Well,  Lucian,  your  grandfather  had  several  professions,  and 
all  of  them  disgraceful.     First  of  all — he  must  now  be  a  very 


A    PACKET    OF    PAPERS  H 

old  man — he  began  by  keeping  a  gambling-house — a  most  noto- 
rious gambling-place." 

"  Kind  of  Crockford's,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Burley's  in  Piccadilly.  It  was  open  all  night  long,  and  the 
keeper  was  always  present  looking  after  the  tables,  lending 
money  to  the  gamesters,  and  encouraging  them  to  play.  Thou- 
sands were  ruined  over  his  tables.  He  provided  supper  and 
wine  and  everything.     Well,  that  is  the  first  part  of  it." 

"  A  noble  beginning.     Pray  go  on." 

"Then  he  was  the  proprietor  of  a  place  where  people,  detest- 
able people — danced  and  drank  all  night  long.  It  appears  to 
have  been  a  most  horrible  place." 

*'  Oh  !     Do  we  get  much  lower  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  In  addition  to  all  these  things  he  was  the 
most  fashionable  money-lender  in  London— and  that  appears  to 
have  been,  of  late  years,  the  profession  by  which  he  was  best 
known.  And  because  he  was  such  a  byword,  your  father  could 
not  bear  to  remain  at  home,  and  ran  away,  changing  his  name. 
And  that,  Lucian,  is  all  that  you  need  to  know  about  your 
people.  There  is  a  lot  about  his  forefathers  and  his  brothers. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  wickedness  and  of  misfortune.  The 
story  is  all  told  in  these  papers."  She  offered  them,  but  he  re- 
fused them. 

"  Keep  them,  Margaret.  I  think  I  have  heard  all  I  want  to 
know — at  least,  for  the  present.  I  will  write  to  the  old  man.  I 
should  like  to  gaze  upon  him,  but  that  is  out  of  the  question,  1 
suppose." 

"  lie  lives  in  the  house  that  has  been  the  family  house  since 
the  first  Burley  of  whom  anything  is  known  built  it." 

"  I'll  go  and  sec  the  outside  of  the  house.  Don't  be  afraid, 
my  child.  I  will  not  reveal  my  existence.  I  will  not  try  to  see 
this  gentleman  of  so  many  good  and  pious  memories.  But  he 
is  over  ninety ;  surely  he  must  have  outlived  his  old  fame — " 

"  His  infamy,  you  mean,"  she  corrected  him,  severely. 

"Fame  or  infamy — it  matters  little  after  all  these  years.  If 
you  were  to  talk  about  Burley's  gambling-house  of  sixty  or 
seventy  years  ago,  who  would  remember  it  ?  It  is  forty  years 
and  more  since  my  father  left  him.  I  suppose  that,  forty  years 
ago,  there  might  have  been  some  iircjudicc — but  now?" 


13  I5EV0ND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"  Some  prejudice  ?  Only  some,  Liician  ?"  She  spoke  with  re- 
proach.    She  expected  much  more  moral  indignation. 

"  The  world  quickly  forgets  the  origin  of  wealth.  My  father, 
had  he  pleased,  might  have  defied  the  opinion  of  the  world. 
Still,  he  was  doubtless  right.  Well,  Maggie,  I  am  glad  to  know 
the  truth.     It  might  have  been  worse." 

"  What  could  be  worse  ?" 

"  You  yourself  suggested  quack  medicines.  But  we  need 
not  make  comparisons.  Burley's  Gambling- Hell ;  Burley's 
Dancing- Crib  ;  ]>urley's  Money -Lending  Business.  He  must 
have  been  a  man  of  great  powers.  Wickedness  on  an  extensive 
scale  requires  genius.  There  are  retail  dealers  in  wickedness 
by  the  thousand ;  but  the  wholesale  merchant  in  the  wicked 
line  —  the  man  who  lives  on  the  vices  of  his  fellows  —  all  the 
vices  he  can  encourage  and  manipulate — he  is  rare.  Looking 
at  John  Burlcy  from  the  outside,  and  not  as  a  prejudiced  de- 
scendant, I  can  see  that  he  must  have  been  a  very  strong  man. 
Now  I  will  tell  him  that  his  son  is  dead." 


CHAPTER   III 
"  THE    CHILD    IS    DEAD  " 

In  his  back  parlor — since  the  buikling  of  the  house  in  lY21 
the  house  had  always  contained  a  front  parlor,  a  back  parlor, 
and  a  best  parlor — the  owner  and  tenant  of  the  house  sat  in  his 
arm-chair  beside  the  fire. 

It  was  quite  a  warm  day  in  early  summer,  yet  there  was  a 
fire ;  outside  a  leafy  branch  of  a  vine  swept  windows  which 
had  not  been  cleaned  for  a  longer  time  than,  to  most  house- 
wives, seems  desirable  ;  the  same  vine — a  large  and  generous 
vine — climbed  over  half  the  back  of  the  house  and  the  whole 
of  a  side  wall  in  the  little  garden ;  there  was  also  a  mulberry- 
tree  in  the  garden  ;  and  there  were  bumps,  lumps,  and  anfract- 
uosities  of  the  ground  covered  with  a  weedy,  seedy  grass,  which 
marked  the  site  of  former  flower-beds  in  the  little  enclosure. 

The  man  in  the  arm-chair  sat  doubled  up  and  limp — he  had 
once  been  a  tall  man.  Pillows  were  placed  in  the  chair  beside 
and  behind  him,  so  that  he  was  propped  and  comforted  on  every 
side ;  his  feet  rested  on  a  footstool.  His  wrinkled  hands  lay 
folded  in  his  lap ;  his  head  was  protected  by  a  black  silk  skull- 
cap ;  his  face  as  he  lay  back  was  covered  with  multitudinous 
wrinkles — an  old,  old  face — the  face  of  a  very  ancient  man. 
The  house  was  very  quiet.  To  begin  with,  you  cannot  find 
anywhere  in  London  a  quieter  place  than  Great  College  Street, 
"Westminster.  Then  there  were  but  two  occupants  of  this 
house — the  old  man  in  the  chair,  and  an  old  woman,  his  house- 
keeper, in  the  kitchen  below — and  they  were  both  asleep,  for 
it  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  On  the  table,  beside  this 
aged  man,  stood  a  decanter  containing  the  generous  wine  that 
kept  him  alive.  There  were  also  pens,  paper,  and  account- 
books,  one  of  them  lying  open,  his  spectacles  on  the  page. 


14  HEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Literature  to  this  man  meant  account- books  —  his  own  ac- 
count-books—  the  record  of  liis  own  investments.  He  read 
nothing  else,  not  the  newspapers,  not  any  printed  books  ;  all 
his  world  was  in  the  account-books.  Of  men  and  women  he 
took  no  thought ;  he  was  as  dead  to  humanity  as  a  Cistercian 
monk ;  he  was,  perhaps,  the  only  living  man  who  had  com- 
pletely achieved  what  he  desired  and  lived  to  enjoy  the  fruit 
of  his  labors :  to  sit  rejoicing  in  his  harvest. 

How  many  of  us  enjoy  our  harvest  ?  The  rich  man  generally 
dies  before  he  has  made  enough  ;  the  poet  dies  before  his  fame 
is  establislicd ;  but  this  man,  who  had  all  his  life  desired  noth- 
ing but  money,  had  made  so  much  that  he  desired  no  more ; 
his  soul  was  satisfied.  Perhaps  in  extreme  old  age  desire  itself 
had  died  away.  But  he  was  satisfied.  No  one  knew  except 
himself  how  much  he  had  accumulated ;  he  sat  all  day  long  in 
his  old  age  reading,  adding,  counting,  enjoying  his  wealth,  watch- 
ing it  grow  and  spread,  and  bear  golden  fruits.  For  this  man 
was  Burley  of  the  gambling-hell ;  Burley  of  the  dancing-cribs ; 
Burley  the  money-lender — in  his  extreme  old  age,  in  his  last  days. 

The  house  was  always  quiet ;  no  one  knocked  at  the  door 
except  his  manager,  the  man  who  was  the  head  of  the  great 
house  filled  with  clerks — some  of  them  passed  solicitors — where 
his  affairs  were  conducted,  his  rents  collected,  and  his  vast  in- 
come invested  as  it  came  in  day  by  day.  Otherwise  the  house 
was  perfectly  quiet.  No  letters  came ;  no  telegrams ;  the  oc- 
cupant was  forgotten  by  the  world ;  nobody  knew  that  he  was 
still  living.  The  old  money-lender  sat  at  home,  by  himself* 
counting  the  money  which  he  lent  no  more ;  most  of  those  with 
whom  he  had  formerly  done  business  were  dead — they  could 
curse  him  no  more;  all  those  who  had  thrown  away  their  money 
at  his  gaming-table  were  dead — they  could  curse  him  no  more. 
As  for  the  nightly  orgies,  the  dancing-cribs,  the  all-night  fin- 
ishes, if  their  memory  survives,  that  of  their  proprietor  had 
long  since  been  forgotten.  And  the  dancers  themselves — the 
merry,  joyous,  laughing,  singing,  but  their  voices  were  hoarse ; 
careless,  yet  their  eyes  were  restless — happy  company  of  nymphs 
and  swains  of  sixty  years  ago,  not  one  was  left  to  curse  him 
for  the  madness  of  the  pace  or  to  weep  over  the  memory  of  a 
ruined  youth. 


"  THE    CHILD    IS    DEAD  15 

He  had  outlived,  as  his  grandson  suggested,  his  infamy. 
Nobody  talked  about  him.  In  his  own  den  he  had  quite 
forgotten — wholly  forgotten — that  at  any  time  there  had  been 
any  persons  whom  he  had  injured.  He  was  serenely  forget- 
ful; he  was  in  a  haven  of  rest,  where  no  curses  could  reach 
him,  and  where  no  tempests  could  be  raised  by  memories  of  the 
past. 

Those  who  study  manners  and  customs  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury have  read  of  Burley's  Hell.  It  was  a  kind  of  club  to  which 
every  one  who  had  money  and  wore  the  dress  and  assumed  the 
manners  of  society  was  freely  admitted.  The  scandalous  me- 
moirs of  the  time  talk  of  Barley's  chef  and  his  wines,  and  the 
table  at  which  he  was  always  present  all  night  long,  always  the 
same — calm,  grave,  unmoved  ;  whatever  the  fortunes  of  the 
night,  always  ready  to  lend  anybody — that  is,  anybody  he  knew 
— any  sum  of  money  he  wanted  on  his  note  of  hand.  Great 
fortunes  were  lost  at  Burley's.  Men  walked  out  of  Burley's 
with  despair  in  their  hearts  and  self-murder  in  their  minds. 
Yet — old  history  !  old  history  1  as  Lucian  Calvert  said.  Only 
those  who  are  students  of  life  in  London,  when  the  Corinthian 
and  his  friends  were  enjoying  it,  still  talk  about  the  Finish — 
Barley's  crib — where  the  noble  army  of  the  godless  assembled 
nif>-ht  after  night,  young  men  and  old  men,  and  ladies  remark- 
able for  their  sprightliness  as  well  as  their  beauty,  and  danced 
and  laughed  and  had  supper  and  drank  pink  champagne — 
too  sweet — in  long  glasses.  There  was  generally  some  kind 
of  fight  or  a  row ;  there  was  always  some  kind  of  a  gamble  in 
some  little  room  up -stairs.  But  —  old  history!  old  history! 
Those  who  read  it  never  thought  of  Burley  at  all.  Who  cares, 
after  fifty  years,  to  inquire  about  a  man  who  once  ran  an  all- 
night  dancing-crib  ?    Mr.  Burley  had  outlived  his  infamy. 

And  always,  till  past  eighty  years  of  age,  the  prince  of  money- 
lenders. Everybody  went  to  Burley.  He  found  money  for 
everybody.  His  terms  were  hard,  and  you  had  to  keep  to  your 
agreement.  But  the  money  was  there  if  the  security  was  forth- 
coming. No  tears,  no  entreaties,  no  prayers,  no  distress  would 
induce  him  to  depart  from  his  bond.  It  is  indeed  impossible 
to  carry  on  such  a  business  successfully  without  an  adamantine 
heart.     But  it  was  nearly  fifteen  years  since  he  retired  from 


16  BEYOKD    TIIK    DRKAMS    OF    AVARICE 

practice,  and  tlic  world  spoke  of  him  no  more.     lie  had  out- 
lived his  infamy. 

lie  was  startled  out  of  his  sleep  by  the  postman's  knock. 
lie  sat  up,  looked  about  him,  recovered  his  wandering  wits, 
and  drank  a  little  port,  which  strengthened  him  so  that  he  was 
able  to  understand  that  his  house-keeper  was  bringing  him  a 
letter. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said,  surprised,  because  letters  came  no 
more  to  that  house,  lie  put  on  his  spectacles  and  read  the 
address,  "John  Calvert  Burley."  '"It  is  for  me,"  he  said.  He 
then  laid  the  letter  on  the  table  and  looked  at  his  house-keeper. 
She  knew  what  he  meant,  and  retired.  The  old  man  at  his  time 
of  life  was  not  going  to  begin  doing  business  in  the  presence 
of  a  servant.  When  she  was  gone  he  took  it  up  again  and 
opened  it  slowly. 

It  was  short,  and  written  in  the  third  person. 

"  The  writer  begs  to  inform  Mr.  Burley  that  his  son,  John 
Calvert  Burley,  died  five  days  ago,  on  the  16th  of  May,  of  rheu- 
matic fever,  and  was  buried  yesterday.  At  the  request  of  the 
deceased  this  information  is  conveyed  to  Mr.  Burley." 

There  was  no  date,  and  there  was  no  address.  But,  the  old 
man  thought,  there  could  be  no  reason  to  doubt  the  fact.  Why 
should  it  be  invented? 

His  memory,  strong  enough  about  the  far-distant  past  when 
he  was  young,  was  weak  as  regards  matters  that  occurred  only 
forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  It  cost  him  an  effort  to  recall — it  was 
a  subject  of  which  he  never  liked  to  think — how  his  son  had 
left  him  after  protesting  against  what  he  called  the  infamy  of 
the  money-lending  business.  Infamy !  he  said.  Infamy !  Of 
a  respectable  and  lucrative  business  !  Infamy !  when  the  in- 
come was  splendid  ! 

"  An  undutif ul  son  !"  murmured  his  father.  "  A  disrespect- 
ful son  !"  He  read  the  letter  again.  "  $o :  he  is  dead."  He 
threw  the  letter  and  the  envelope  on  the  fire.  "  I  have  left  off 
thinking  about  him.  Why  should  I  begin  again?  I  won't.  I 
will  forget  him.  Dead,  is  he  ?  I  used  to  think  that  perhaps 
lie  would  come  back  and  make  submission  for  the  sake  of  the 
money.  And  even  then  I  wouldn't  have  left  him  any.  I  re- 
member.    Thnt  was  when  I  made  up  my  mind  what  should  be 


"  THE    CHILD    IS    DEAD  17 

done  with  it.  Ho  !  ho  !  I  thought  how  disappointed  he  would 
be.  Dead,  is  he  ?  Then  he  won't  be  disappointed.  It's  a  pity. 
Now  there's  nobody  left,  nobody  left  at  all." 

This  reflection  seemed  to  please  him,  for  he  laughed  a  little 
and  rubbed  his  hands.  At  the  age  of  ninety-four,  or  there- 
abouts, it  is  dangerous  to  give  way  to  any  but  the  simplest  and 
most  gentle  emotions.  It  is  quite  wonderful  what  a  little  thing 
may  stop  the  pulse  at  ninety-four,  and  still  the  heart. 

Even  such  a  little  thing  as  the  announcement  of  the  death 
of  a  son  one  has  not  seen  for  forty  years,  and  the  revival  of 
an  old,  angry,  and  revengeful  spirit,  may  do  it.  When  the 
house-keeper  brought  in  the  tea  at  five  o'clock  she  found  that, 
to  use  the  old  man's  last  words,  "  There  was  nobody  left  at 
all." 

"  Look,  Marjorie."  Lucian  showed  her  a  newspaper.  "  The 
old  man,  my  grandfather,  is  dead.  Read.  'On  the  15th,  sud- 
denly, at  his  residence.  Great  College  Street,  Westminster,  John 
Calvert  Burley,  aged  ninety-four  years.'  " 

"  On  the  15th  ?  Two  days  ago  !  That  was  when  he  received 
your  letter." 

"  If  he  did  receive  it.  Perhaps  he  died  before  it  reached  the 
house.  Here  is  a  paragraph  about  him.  See  that  ?  lie  did 
not  quite  outlive  his  infamy." 

The  paragraph  ran  as  follows : 

"  The  death,  this  day  announced,  of  Mr.  John  Calvert  Burley, 
carries  us  back  sixty  years  and  more,  to  the  time  when  gam- 
bling-hells were  openly  kept,  and  when  there  were  all-night 
saloons ;  to  the  days  when  the  pace  of  the  young  prodigal  was 
far  faster  than  in  this  degenerate  generation.  Mr.  Burley  was 
the  firm  friend  of  that  young  prodigal.  He  gave  him  a  gambling- 
table  with  free  drinks ;  he  gave  him  dancing-cribs ;  he  lent  him 
money ;  he  encouraged  him  to  keep  the  ball  a-rolling.  Sixty 
years  ago  Mr.  Burley's  name  was  well  known  to  all  followers  of 
Comus.  For  many  years  he  has  lived  retired  in  his  house  at 
Westminster.  The  present  generation  knows  nothing  of  him. 
But  it  will  be  a  surprise  to  old  men,  if  any  survive,  of  the 
twenties  or  the  thirties,  that  John  Burley  lived  to  the  age  of 
ninety-four  and  only  died  yesterday.  He  must  have  outlived  all 
those  who  drank   his   champagne   and  lost  their  money  at  liis 


18  UEYOND    THE    IHIEAMS    OF    AVARICE 

tables ;  he  must  have  outlived  most  of  the  young  prodigals  for 
whom  he  ran  his  dancing-saloon  and  to  whom  he  lent  money  at 
50  per  cent." 

Margaret  read  it  aloud.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  some  prejudices 
linger,  don't  they,  Lucian  ?  Better  to  be  a  Calvert  without  any 
other  ancestors  than  an  honorable  father,  than  a  IJurley  with 
this  man  behind  you." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Lucian,  thoughtfully.  "  But  a  man  can  no 
more  get  rid  of  his  ancestors  than  he  can  get  rid  of  his  face 
and  his  hereditary  tendencies.  AVell,  my  dear,  the  name  may 
go.  And  as  for  the  money — I  suppose  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  money — that  has  been  left  to  some  one,  and  I  hope  he  will 
enjoy  it.     As  for  us,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 


CHAPTER   IV 

AN    INQUEST    OF    OFFICE 

The  door  of  the  house  in  Great  College  Street  stood  wide 
open — a  policeman  was  stationed  on  the  door-step.  Something 
of  a  public  character  was  therefore  going  on :  at  private  family 
functions — as  a  wedding,  a  christening,  a  funeral — there  is  no 
policeman.  But  there  was  no  crowd  or  any  public  curiosity — in 
fact,  you  could  not  raise  a  crowd  in  Great  College  Street  on  any 
pretext  whatever.  Once  a  horse  fell  down  in  order  to  try.  He 
had  to  get  up,  unnoticed.  From  time  to  time  a  man  stepped 
briskly  up  the  street,  spoke  to  the  policeman,  and  went  in. 

Presently  there  came  along  the  street  a  young  man  —  Mr. 
Lucian  Calvert,  in  fact — who  walked  more  slowly,  and  looked 
about  him.  He  had  come  to  see  the  outside  of  a  certain  house. 
He  arrived  at  the  house,  read  the  number,  and  saw  the  open 
door  and  the  poUceman  on  the  steps. 

"What  is  going  on?"  he  asked. 

"  Coroner's  inquest." 

"  An  inquest  ?    Is  not  this  the  house  of  the  late  Mr.  Burlcy  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  That  was  the  party's  name.  He's  left  no  will, 
and  there's  an  inquest.  You  can  go  in,  if  you  like.  It's  in  the 
ground-floor  back." 

The  young  man  hesitated.  Then  he  accepted  the  invitation 
and  stepped  in.  He  had  come  to  see  the  outside  of  his  grand- 
father's house.  Chance  gave  him  an  opportunity  for  seeing  the 
inside  as  well.  Other  men  walked  up  the  street  and  spoke  to 
the  policeman  and  stepped  in.  Then  there  drove  up  to  the 
door  a  cab  with  two  men.  One  had  the  unmistakable  look  of  a 
man  in  office  ;  the  other  the  equally  unmistakable  look  of  a 
middle-aged  clerk.  After  a  certain  time  of  life  we  all  appear 
to  be  what  we  are.     This  is  as  it  should  be  :  in  early  life  we 


20  REYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

can  make-up.  I  have  known  a  young  duke  look  like  a  car- 
penter, and  a  young  compositor  like  a  belted  earl.  When  these 
two  had  entered,  the  policeman  left  the  door  and  followed  the 
others  into  the  ground  -  floor  back  —  more  poetically,  the  back 
parlor. 

The  twelve  men  gathered  there  were  the  twelve  good  men 
and  true  who  had  been  summoned  to  form  a  jury.  They  repre- 
sented, after  the  manner  of  their  forefathers,  the  wisdom  of  the 
nation.  The  man  of  office  represented  the  ancient  and  honor- 
able post  of  coroner.  The  policeman  represented  the  authority 
of  the  Court.  A  reporter,  together  with  the  young  gentleman 
who  had  been  invited  to  assist,  represented  the  publicity  of  the 
Court  —  no  Star-Chamber  business  there,  if  you  please.  All 
above-board  and  open.  There  were  one  or  two  others — an  el- 
derly gentleman,  well  dressed,  with  the  look  of  ability  and  the 
air  of  business  experience — this  was  Mr.  Bnrley's  manager;  an 
old  woman  in  black,  who  held  a  handkerchief  in  her  hand  and 
patted  her  eyes  with  it  at  intervals  with  a  perfunctory  moan — 
these  were  witnesses.  There  was  also  a  young  man  who  might 
have  been  something  in  the  City.  He  was  in  reality  a  short- 
hand clerk  employed  at  the  office  where  the  Burley  estate  was 
managed,  and  he  came  with  the  manager  to  take  down  the  pro- 
ceedings. And  standing  in  a  corner  Lucian  observed,  to  his 
astonishment,  Mr.  Nicholson,  his  father's  friend  and  solicitor. 
"  You  here,  Lucian  !  Who  told  you  ?" 
''  I  am  here  by  accident.  W^hat  does  it  mean  ?" 
"  It  means  that  they  can't  find  any  will.  Good  Lord  !  What 
a  windfall  it  will  be  for  somebody  !"  He  remembered  that 
Lucian  was  the  grandson.  "  That  is,  for  anybody  who  would 
proclaim  his  relationship  to  such  a  man." 

Lucian  looked  about  the  room.  It  was  wainscoted  and  the 
panels  were  painted  drab — a  good,  useful  color,  which  can  ab- 
sorb a  good  deal  of  dirt  without  showing  it,  and  lasts  a  long 
time.  It  was  formerly  a  favorite  color  for  this  if  for  no  other 
reason,  all  through  the  last  century.  In  the  panels  were  hang- 
ing colored  prints,  their  frames  once  gilt,  now  almost  black. 
The  low  window  looked  out  upon  a  small  garden,  in  which  stood 
a  mulberry-tree,  while  on  the  wall  grew  an  immense  vine.  Cur- 
tains which  had  long  lost  their  virginal  color  hung  from  a  ma- 


AN    INQUEST    OF    OFFICE  21 

hogany  curtain -pole.  On  the  mantel-shelf  was  a  tobacco- jar 
with  two  broken  pipes,  and  two  wax  candles  in  silver  candle- 
sticks. The  floor  v/as  covered  with  a  worn  carpet,  faded  like 
the  curtains ;  in  front  of  the  fire  it  had  gone  into  holes — there 
was  no  hearth-rug.  As  for  the  furniture,  it  consisted  of  a  pon- 
derous mahogany  table,  black  with  age,  a  mahogany  sideboard 
of  ancient  fashion,  with  a  large  punch-bowl  upon  it  and  a  cop- 
per coal-scuttle  below  it ;  a  tall  bookcase  filled  with  books,  all  in 
the  leather  and  sheepskin  binding  of  the  last  century  ;  three  or 
four  chairs  of  the  straight-backed  kind  and  a  modern  wooden 
arm-chair  stood  against  the  wall.  The  fireplace  was  of  the 
eighteenth-century  pattern,  with  an  open  chimney  and  a  hob : 
on  the  hob  was  a  copper  kettle.  The  brass  fender  was  one  of 
the  old-fashioned  high  things,  to  match  the  grate  and  to  keep  as 
much  heat  as  possible  out  of  the  room.  Two  benches  had  been 
placed  in  the  room  for  the  accommodation  of  the  jury. 

The  coroner  bustled  into  the  room,  and  took  his  seat  at  the 
head  of  the  table  in  the  arm  -  chair.  His  clerk  placed  papers 
before  him  and  stood  in  readiness,  the  New  Testament  in  his 
hand.  The  reporter  and  the  short-hand  clerk  took  chairs  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  table  —  the  policeman  closed  the  door  and 
stood  beside  it  on  guard  —  the  jury  took  their  seats  on  the 
wooden  benches,  the  old  lady  renewed  her  sobs,  the  manager 
took  a  chair  behind  the  reporter,  and  the  public,  represented  by 
Mr.  Nicholson  and  Lucian,  shrank  deeper  into  the  corner. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  coroner,  rising  and  looking  slowly 
round  the  room  with  importance,  "I  am  about  to  open  the 
Court — this  Court,"  he  repeated,  "for  this  inquest." 

The  jury  murmured  and  cleared  their  throats. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  coroner,  "you  will  first  be  sworn." 

This  was  done  by  the  coroner's  clerk,  who  handed  round  the 
New  Testament  with  the  customary  form  of  words. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen^"  the  coroner  began,  absently,  "  we 
will  proceed  to  view  the  cor — I  mean,  of  course,  we  will  pro- 
ceed to  the  business  before  us.  This,  gentlemen,  as  you  have 
heard,  is  not  an  ordinary  inquest  ;  it  is  not,  for  once,  an  in- 
quiry into  the  cause  of  death  of  any  person  for  which  I  invite 
your  intelligent  assistance  this  morning.  It  is  a  more  formal 
duty    that   lies   before    us.     Equally    important — even,  in    this 


22  BEYOND  THK  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

case  perhaps,  more  important.  It  is  what  lawyers  call  an  '  In- 
quest of  Ofllce,'  "  He  repeated  these  words  with  greater 
solemnity,  and-  every  man  of  the  jury  sat  upright  and  cleared 
his  throat  again.  "An  Inquest  of  Office!"  Not  an  ordinary 
inquest,  you  sec.     This  was  an  Inquest  of  Office. 

"  Gentlemen,"  the  coroner  continued,  after  a  pause,  to  allow 
these  words  time  to  settle  in  the  collective  mind,  *'  the  facts  are 
these :  The  owner  and  tenant  of  this  house,  who  died  and  was 
buried  a  fortnight  ago,  was  one  John  Calvert  Burley." 

"Known  to  all  of  us,"  one  of  the  jury  interrupted. 

"  John  Calvert  Burley,"  the  magistrate  repeated,  with  a 
judicial  frown,  "  upon  whose  estate — not  his  body — we  now 
hold  this  inquiry.  lie  has  died,  so  far  as  has  been  discovered, 
intestate.  An  announcement  of  his  death  has  appeared  in  the 
papers ;  paragraphs  concerning  him  have  also  gone  the  round  of 
the  papers — for  the  deceased  was,  as  most  of  us  know,  a  person 
formerly  of  considerable — of  unenviable — notoriety.  But  so 
far,  oddly  enough,  no  heirs  have  appeared.  This  is  the  more 
extraordinary  as  it  is  reported  that  the  deceased  possessed  very 
great  wealth.  In  fact" — the  magistrate  assumed  a  confidential 
manner — "  the  estate  is  reported  to  be  enormous — enormous  !" 
— he  spread  out  his  hands  in  order  to  assist  the  jury  to  give 
play  to  their  imaginations — he  sat  upright  in  his  chair  in  order 
to  lift  up  the  grovelling — "  we  must  rise  to  loftier  levels.  How- 
ever," he  sank  back  again,  "the  magnitude  of  the  estate  does 
not  concern  us.  This  Court  has  to  do  with  an  estate,  large  or 
small.  And  now,  gentlemen,  I  shall  offer  you  such  evidence  as 
we  have  to  show  that  there  is  no  will,  and  that  there  has  been, 
so  far,  no  claimant.     I  call  Racliel  Dragc." 

The  old  lady  in  black  answered  to  her  name,  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  stood  up  to  give  evidence. 

She  said  that  she  had  been  house-keeper  to  Mr.  John  Calvert 
Burley  for  forty  years.  Asked  if  he  was  a  married  man,  she  said 
that  she  liad  always  understood  that  he  was  a  widower;  but  he 
liad  never  spoken  to  her  about  his  family.  She  could  not  say 
what  caused  her  to  believe  that  he  was  a  widower.  Asked  if 
there  were  any  children,  supposing  there  had  been  a  marriage, 
she  said  tliat  there  was  a  nursery  which  had  a  child's  crib  and 
a  cliest  of  drawers  with  children's  clDthiiig  in  it,  hut  she  knew 


AN    INQUEST    OF    OFFICE  33 

nothing  more.  Her  master  never  spoke  of  his  family  affairs. 
Asked  if  there  were  any  relations,  said  that  she  had  never  heard 
of  any.  If  there  were  any,  and  if  they  ever  called  on  the  deceased 
gentleman,  it  must  have  been  at  the  office,  not  the  house ;  not  a 
single  visitor  had  ever  called  at  the  house  or  been  admitted  to 
this  room — Mr.  Burley's  living-room — during  the  forty  years  of 
her  residence.  He  had  no  friends ;  he  never  went  out  in  the 
evenings ;  he  never  went  to  church  or  chapel ;  he  lived  quite 
alone. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  president  of  the  Court,  "the  impor- 
tant part  of  this  evidence  is  the  fact  that  for  forty  years  no  one 
ever  called  upon  the  deceased — neither  son,  nor  grandson,  nor 
cousin,  nor  nephew.  Yet  his  wealth  Avas  notorious.  Rich  men, 
as  most  of  you,  I  hope,  know  very  well,  are  generally  surrounded 
by  their  relations." 

One  of  the  jury  asked  a  question  which  led  to  others.  They 
bore  upon  the  deceased's  way  of  living,  and  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  business  before  the  Court.  But  since  we  are  all 
curious  as  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  that  interesting 
people — the  rich — the  coroner  allowed  these  questions.  When 
the  jury  had  learned  all  about  the  conduct  of  an  extremely  par- 
simonious household,  and  when  the  old  lady  had  explained  that 
her  master,  though  near  as  to  his  expenditure,  was  a  good  man, 
who  was  surely  in  Abraham's  bosom  if  ever  any  one  was,  she 
was  permitted  to  retire,  though  unwilling,  into  the  obscurity  of 
a  back  seat. 

The  manager  gave  his  evidence.  He  had  been  employed  by 
the  deceased  for  thirty  years.  He  was  now  the  chief  manager 
of  his  estates.  Everything  connected  with  the  estates  was 
managed  at  the  l)0use,  where  solicitors,  architects,  and  other 
professional  people  were  employed  on  salaries.  He  was  familiar 
with  the  details  of  the  estate  ;  there  were  enormous  masses  of 
papers.  He  knew  nothing  of  any  will.  Had  a  will  passed 
through  his  hands  he  should  certainly  have  remembered  it. 
Naturally,  he  was  anxious  to  know  what  would  be  done  with  so 
great  a  property.  He  supposed  that  Mr.  Burley  had  employed 
a  solicitor  outside  his  own  office  for  the  purpose  of  drawing  ii[) 
a  will.  He  had  never  spoken  to  Mr.  Burley  on  the  subject ;  he 
knew  nothinir  of  Mr.  Burley's  family  or  connections;  he  under- 


24  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

stood  that  Mr.  Burlcy  had  once  been  married  ;  he  believed,  but 
he  did  not  know  for  certain,  that  there  liad  been  a  child  or 
children.  He  had  himself  sent  the  announcement  of  the  death 
to  the  papers ;  he  had  seen  one  or  two  paragraphs  concerning 
the  early  life  of  the  deceased,  but  could  not  say,  from  his  own 
knowledge,  whether  they  were  true  or  false. 

He  was  asked  by  one  of  the  jury  whether  the  deceased  was 
as  rich  as  was  reported.  He  replied  that  he  could  not  tell 
until  the  report  reached  him.  Other  questions  as  to  the  extent 
and  value  of  the  estate  he  fenced  with.  There  was,  he  said,  a 
great  deal  of  property,  but  he  declined  absolutely  to  commit 
himself  to  any  estimate  at  all.  So  that  the  curiosity  of  the 
jury  was  batllcd.  They  had  learned,  however,  that  the  estate 
was  so  large  and  important  that  it  had  to  be  managed  at  a 
house  specially  used  for  the  purpose,  by  a  manager  and  a  large 
staff  of  accountants  and  clerks.  This  was  something — such  an 
estate  must  be  worth  untold  thousands. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  coroner,  "  you  have  now  heard  all 
the  evidence  that  we  have  to  oifcr.  Here  is  an  estate.  Where 
is  the  late  owner's  will?  There  is  none.  AVhere  are  the  heirs? 
They  do  not  appear.  For  forty  years  no  member  of  the  de- 
ceased's family  has  visited  him.  He  might  have  had  sons, 
grandsons,  great-grandsons.  None  have  turned  up.  But  there 
must  be,  one  would  think,  nephews — grand-nephews — cousins. 
If  he  had  brothers,  they  must  have  had  descendants ;  if  he  had 
uncles,  they  must  have  had  descendants.  Now,  in  the  lower 
classes  nothing  is  more  common  than  for  a  man  to  change  his 
place  of  residence  so  that  his  children  grow  up  in  ignorance  abso- 
lute of  their  ancestry  and  cousins.  But  this  man,  whatever  liis 
origin,  was  at  one  time  before  the  world,  notorious  or  famous, 
whatever  you  please;  he  was  a  public  character;  he  was  owner  of 
theatres,  dancing-places,  gambling-hells;  he  was  a  well-known 
money-lender.  All  the  world  knew  the  usurer  John  Calvert  Bur- 
ley.  He  stood  on  a  kind  of  pinnacle — unenviable,  perhaps,  but 
still  on  a  pinnacle  of  publicity.  His  relations  must  have  fol- 
lowed his  course  with  interest — who  would  not  watch  with  in- 
terest the  course  of  a  childless  cousin  ?  Yes,  he  is  dead  ;  and 
where  are  the  cousins  and  the  nephews  ?  It  is  a  very  remark- 
able case.     A  pour  man  may  have  no  one  to  claim  kinship  at 


AN    INQUEST    OF   OFFICE  25 

his  death.  But  for  a  rich  man,  and  a  notorious  man —  It  is, 
indeed,  wonderful !  Gentlemen,  you  have  only  to  declare  the 
estate,  in  default  of  heirs,  escheated  and  vested  in  the  Crown. 
You  all  understand,  however,  that  her  Majesty  the  Queen  will 
not  be  enriched  by  this  windfall.  The  Treasury  and  not  the 
Sovereign  receives  all  those  estates  for  which  an  heir  is  wanting." 

The  jury  thereupon  returned  their  verdict — "  That  until,  or 
unless,  the  lawful  heirs,  or  heir,  shall  substantiate  a  claim  to  the 
estate  of  the  late  John  Calvert  Burley,  the  said  estate  shall  be, 
and  is,  escheated  and  become  vested  in  the  Crown." 

"Then,  gentlemen,"  said  the  coroner,  "nothing  more  remains 
except  for  you  to  affix  your  signatures  to  this  verdict,  and  for 
me  to  thank  you,  one  and  all,  for  the  intelligence  and  care 
which  you  have  brought  to  bear  upon  this  important  case." 

In  this  manner  and  with  such  formalities  the  estate  of  the 
deceased  was  transferred  to  the  Treasury,  to  be  by  it  held  and 
administered  in  the  name  of  the  Crown  unless  the  rightful 
claimant  should  be  able  to  establish  his  right. 

"That's  done,"  said  Mr.  Nicholson.  "Now,  let  us  look  over 
the  house.  I  haven't  been  here  for  forty  years  and  more. 
Come  and  see  where  your  father  was  born,  Luciau." 


CHAPTER  V 
THE    FORTUNE    AND    THE    HOUSE 

"  Margaret  !"  She  had  never  seen  her  lover  so  flushed  and 
excited.  Mostly  he  preserved,  vv-hatever  happened,  the  philo- 
sophic calm  that  befits  the  scientific  mind.  "  Margaret,  I  have 
had  the  most  wonderful  morning  !  I  have  made  discoveries  !  I 
have  heard  revelations !" 

"  What  is  it,  Lucian  ?" 

"  It  is  about  my  grandfather.  I  told  you  I  should  go  to  see 
the  house.  Well,  I  had  no  time  to  go  there  till  to-day.  I  have 
been  there — I  walked  over  there  this  morning.  And  I  have  been 
rewarded.  A  most  remarkable  coincidence  !  The  very  moment 
when  I  arrived  there  was  opened  an  inquest  in  the  house  itself. 
Not  an  ordinary  inquest,  you  know — the  poor  old  man  has  been 
buried  a  month — but  what  they  call  an  Inquest  of  OflSce.  For 
since  his  death  they  have  been  searching  for  his  will,  and  they 
haven't  found  it.  And  it  really  seems,  my  dear  Margaret,  as  if 
the  one  thing  most  unlikely  of  all  to  happen  has  happened : 
that  this  rich  man  has  actually  died  intestate,  in  which  case  I, 
even  I  myself,  am  the  sole  heir  to  everything !" 

"  Oh,  Lucian  !     Is  it  possible  ?" 

"  It  is  almost  certain.  They  have  searched  everywhere. 
There  are  piles  of  papers:  they  have  all  been  examined.  No 
will  has  been  found.  Now,  if  he  had  made  a  will,  it  is  certain 
that  I  could  not  have  come  into  it,  unless  through  my  father, 
and  it  is  not  probable  that  he  would  have  had  anything.  But 
there  is,  aj)parentlv,  no  will,  and  the  estates  are  handed  over  to 
the  Treasury  until — unless — they  find  the  rightful  heir — mo — 
whom  they  cannot  find." 

"  Oh,  Lucian  !  It  is  wonderful !  But,  of  course,  you  arc  not 
going  to  claim  this  terrible  money — the  profits  of  gambling- 
saloons  and  wic-ked  places  ami  money-lending  ?" 


THE  FORTUNE  AND  THE  HOUSE  27 

"  No,  m.y  dear,  I  am  not.  Yet "  —  he  laughed  —  "  my  dear 
child,  it  is  a  thousand  pities,  for  the  pile  is  enormous.  You  sit 
there  as  quiet  as  a  nun :  you  don't  understand  what  it  means. 
Why,  my  dear  Margaret,  simple  as  you  look,  you  should  be, 
when  you  marry  me,  if  you  had  your  rights,  the  richest  woman 
in  the  country — the  richest  woman,  perhaps,  in  the  world !" 

"  Don't  take  away  my  breath !  Even  to  a  nun  such  an  an- 
nouncement would  be  interesting." 

"  The  richest  woman  in  the  world  !  That  is  all — wealth  be- 
yond the  dreams  of  avarice  —  only  that.  And  we  give  it  up! 
Now,  I'll  tell  you — I  can't  sit  down,  I  must  walk  about,  because 
the  thought  of  this  most  wonderful  thing  won't  let  me  keep 
still.  Very  well,  then.  Now  listen.  Mr.  Nicholson,  my  father's 
old  friend,  you  know,  was  there.  He  had  heard  of  the  inquest 
from  the  manager.  All  the  Burley  estates  are  managed  at  a 
house  in  Westminster — it  is  a  great  house  filled  with  clerks, 
accountants,  solicitors,  architects,  builders,  rent- collectors — ev- 
erything, all  under  a  manager,  who  is  a  friend  of  Mr.  Nich- 
olson. Nobody  knows  what  the  estate  is  worth,  but  when 
this  old  man's  father  died  he  left  the  son  an  income  of  £20,000 
a  year,  which  at  5  per  cent,  is  £400,000.  That  was  what 
he  began  with  at  five-and-twenty.  There  was  no  need  for 
him  to  do  any  work  at  all.  But  he  did  all  those  thino-s  that 
we  know." 

"Yes?" — for  Lucian  paused. 

"He  lived  quite  simply.  The  whole  of  that  income  must 
have  accumulated  at  compound  interest.  Do  you  know  what 
that  means  ?" 

"  No.  But  these  figures  are  beginning  to  frighten  me.  What 
does  it  matter  to  us  how  much  there  is?" 

"Why,  my  dear,  I  am  the  lieir — only  in  name,  I  know;  still 
— well,  Marjorie,  money  at  5  per  cent,  doubles  itself  every  thir- 
teen years  or  so.  That  is  to  say,  the  sum  of  £100  in  scvcntv 
years  would  become,  at  5  per  cent.,  £3200,  and  the  sum  of 
£400,000  would  become  in  the  same  period  over  twelve  mill- 
ions. T  don't  sup[)ose  the  old  man  always  got  his  5  per  cent., 
but  it  is  certain  that  the  original  principal  has  grown  and  devel- 
oped enormously — enormously  !  Without  counting  the  money- 
lending  business  and  the  other  enterprises,  there  must  be  mill- 


28  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

ions.  Nicholson  says  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  estate  is  worth 
many  millions.  My  father  knew  of  tbis  enormous  wealth,  but 
he  kept  silence." 

"  Your  father  would  not  touch  that  dreadful  and  ill-^tten 
money,  Lucian.  Tell  me  no  more — 1  cannot  think  in  millions ; 
I  think  in  hundreds.  So  many  hundreds  —  you  have  two  or 
tbree,  I  believe — will  keep  our  modest  household.  Do  not  let 
us  talk  or  think  about  other  people's  millions." 

"  They  are  mine,  Margaret,  mine,  if  I  choose  to  put  out  my 
hand.  I  only  wish  you  to  understand,  dear,  what  it  is — this 
trifle  we  are  throwing  away  in  obedience  to  my  father's  wish." 

"  Do  not  let  us  think  about  this  horrid  money,  Lucian.  We 
should  end  by  regretting  that  you  did  not  claim  it.  Your  father 
renounced  his  name  and  his  inheritance." 

"  Yes  "—but  he  looked  doubtful.    "  If  that  binds  me—" 

"  Of  course  it  binds  us.  It  must  bind  us,  Lucian.  Besides, 
there  is  a  curse — remember  your  father's  words — a  curse  upon 
the  money.     Got  with  dishonor — " 

"  My  dear  child !  A  curse  !  Do  not,  pray,  let  us  talk  medi- 
icval  superstitions.  The  money  may  be  given  to  anybody,  for 
all  I  care.  At  the  same  time,  to  throw  away  such  a  chance 
makes  one  a  little — eh  ? — agitated.  You  must  allow,  pretty 
I'uritan,  for  some  natural  weakness." 

"  Yes,  Lucian.  But  you  are  a  man  of  science,  not  a  money- 
grubber.     ^Vhat  would  money  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Let  me  tell  you  about  the  house." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  hear  about  the  house,  or  the  occupants,  or 
the  money,  or  anything.  I  want  to  forget  all  about  it.  I  am 
sorry  we  read  those  papers,  since  they  have  disturbed  your  mind." 

"Listen  a  moment  only,  and  I  will  have  done.  The  house- 
keeper took  us  up  to  the  first  floor — Nicholson  and  myself.  It 
is  a  wonderful  place.  The  furniture  is  at  least  a  hundred  years 
old.  Neither  the  old  man  nor  his  father — who  was  a  miser: 
quite  a  famous  miser:  they  talk  of  him  still — would  ever  buy 
anything  new  or  send  away  anything  old." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  that  part  of  it." 

"Of  course  you  would.  On  the  walls  are  portraits — my  an- 
cestors ;  although  my  grandfather  ran  dancing-cribs,  they  have 
been  a  respectable  stock  for  ever  so  long." 


'THE    IIOUSK-KKKPKU   TOOK    LS    fl'    TO    THE    FlUST    FLOOR ' 


THE    FORTUXE    AXD    THE    HOUSE  29 

•'  They  have  been  disreputable  since  the  time  of  Queen  Anne," 
said  Margaret.  "  I  do  not  know  what  tlicy  were  before  that 
time." 

"  Very  well.  There  they  are,  in  Queen  Anne  wigs  and 
George  II.  wigs,  and  hair  tied  beliind.  And,  I  say,  Margaret, 
you  know,  whatever  they  were,  it  is  pleasant  to  feel  that  one 
has  forefathers,  like  other  men.  Perhaps  they  were  not  alto- 
gether stalwart  Christians — but,  yet — " 

"  One  would  like,  at  least,  honorable  ancestors." 

"  We  must  take  what  is  helped.  We  can't  choose  our  ances- 
tors for  ourselves.  This  is  their  family  house,  in  which  they 
have  lived  all  these  years.  It  is  a  lovely  old  house.  Three  sto- 
ries, and  garrets  in  the  red-tiled,  roof ;  steps  up  to  the  door  like 
a  Dutch  stoop ;  the  whole  front  covered  with  a  thick  hanging 
creeper — a  green  curtain  ;  the  front  window  looking  out  upon 
the  old  gray  wall  of  the  Abbey  garden  ;  at  the  back  a  little  gar- 
den with  a  huge  vine — " 

"Your  father  must  have  played  in  it,"  said  Margaret,  attract- 
ed against  her  will  by  the  description. 

"  Then  he  played  under  a  mulberry  and  beside  a  splendid 
vine.  The  stairs  are  broad  and  low  ;  the  whole  house  is  wain- 
scoted. Marjorie  mine  !"  He  sat  down,  stopping  suddenly,  and 
took  her  hand. 

•'  What  is  it,  Lucian  ?" 

Now  these  two  young  people  were  not  only  engaged  to  each 
other,  but  they  were  fully  resolved  to  gather  the  roses  while 
they  might,  and  not  to  wait  for  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf.  They 
would  marry,  as  so  many  brave  young  people  do  now  marry,  in 
these  days  of  tightness,  on  a  small  income,  hopeful  for  the  fut- 
ure. What  that  income  was,  you  may  guess  from  the  first  chap- 
ter of  this  history. 

"I  have  an  idea.  It  is  this:  The  house  will  suit  us  exactly. 
Let  us  take  it  and  set  up  our  tent  there.  Don't  jump  up,  my 
dear.  I  renounce  my  ancestors  as  much  as  you  like  —  their 
trades  and  callings — their  little  iniquities  —  their  works  and 
their  ways.  Their  enormous  fortune  I  renounce.  I  go  about 
with  a  name  that  does  not  belong  to  me,  and  I  won't  take  my 
own  true  name.  All  the  same,  they  arc  my  ancestors.  They 
are ;  we  cannot  get  clear  of  tliat  fact." 


30  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  But  wliy  go  and  live  in  tlieir  house  and  be  always  reminded 
of  the  fact  ?" 

*'  Can  one  ever  forget  the  fact  of  one's  own  ancestry  ?  They 
are  an  accident  of  the  house ;  they  won't  affect  us.  We  shall 
go  in  as  strangers.  As  for  that  curse  of  the  money — which  is 
an  idle  superstition — that  cannot  fall  upon  us,  because  we  shall 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  money  ;  and  it  is  so  quiet;  the 
street  itself  is  like — well,  it  reminds  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
river-side  docks — quiet  old  places  which  the  noise  of  the  river 
seems  never  to  reach.  Great  College  Street  is  a  peaceful  little 
dock  running  up  out  of  the  broad  high  river  of  the  street  for 
the  repose  of  liumans.  And  it  is  close  to  the  Abbey,  which  you 
would  like.  And  at  the  back  is  a  Place — not  a  street — a  Place 
which  is  more  secluded  than  any  Cathedral  Close  anywhere.  You 
would  think  you  were  in  a  nunnery,  and  you  would  walk  there, 
in  the  sunshine  of  a  winter  morning,  and  meditate  after  your  own 
heart.  It  is  as  quiet  as  a  nunnery  and  as  peaceful.  Now,  child, 
let  me  say  right  out  what  is  in  my  mind.  I  want  a  place — don't 
I  ? — wlicre  I  can  put  up  my  plate  and  make  a  bid  for  a  practice 
— Lucian  Calvert,  M.D.  Well,  I  looked  about.  The  position 
is  central ;  the  street  is  quiet ;  there  are  lots  of  great  people 
about.  The  members  of  Parliament  would  only  have  to  step 
across  Palace  Yard ;  the  Speaker  can  run  over  and  speak  to  me 
about  liis  symptoms,  noble  lords  can  drop  in  to  consult  me ; 
the  Dean  and  Canons  of  AVestminster  have  only  to  open  the 
garden  gate  in  order  to  find  me." 

"  Oh,  Lucian  !  I  am  so  sorry  that  you  have  seen  the  house. 
Oh  !  I  am  so  sorry  that  you  ever  heard  anything  about  this 
great  fortune."  , 

*'  Of  course  I  mean  that  we  should  take  the  house  with  all 
that  it  contains." 

"  All  your  ancestors'  portraits  ?"  slie  laughed,  scornfully. 
"  Why,  if  you  knew  who  and  what  they  were — " 

"  I  do  not  expect  virtue.  Their  private  characters  liave  noth- 
ing to  do  with  us.  We  have  cut  ourselves  off.  Only,  it  will  be 
pleasant  to  feel  that  they  are  there  always  with  us.  My  dear, 
after  all  these  years,  say  that  it  is  pleasant  to  find  that  one  has 
ancestors." 

"  And  you  want  to  go  and  live  with  them  !    You  have  changed 


THE  FORTUNE  AND  THE  HOUSE  31 

)'our  name  and  refused  your  inheritance.  Why,  Lucian,  if  you 
live  among  them,  it  will  be  like  a  return  to  the  family  traditions 
— and — and — I  don't  know — misfortune  and  disaster — you  have 
not  read  the  history  of  the  family." 

"  A  family  curse !"  he  repeated,  with  impatience.  "  Non- 
sense !  The  place  is  most  suitable ;  the  house  is  most  conven- 
ient— and — besides — the  house  should  be  mine  ;  my  own  people 
have  always  lived  in  it ;  I  belong  to  the  house.  The  portraits 
are  mine ;  I  ought  to  be  with  them.  One  would  say  that  they 
call  me." 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE     N  U  K  S  E  R  V 

LuciAN  turned  away  and  said  no  more  that  day.  But  the 
next  day — and  the  next — and  every  day  he  returned  to  the  sub- 
ject. Sometimes  openly,  sometimes  indirectly  ;  always  by  some- 
thing that  he  said,  showing  that  his  mind  was  dwelling  on  his 
newly  recovered  ancestors  and  on  their  house  at  Westminster. 
She  knew  that  he  walked  across  the  park  every  day  to  look  at 
it.  She  perceived  that  his  proposal  to  take  the  house,  so  far 
from  being  abandoned  or  forgotten,  was  growing  in  his  mind, 
and  had  taken  root  there.  Her  heart  sank  with  forebodings — 
those  forebodings  which  have  no  foundation,  yet  are  warnings 
and  prophecies. 

"You  are  thinkmg  still,"  she  said,  "of  those  portraits." 

"  There  is  reproach  in  your  voice,  my  Marjorie,"  he  replied. 
"Yes,  I  think  of  thorn  still,  I  have  seen  them  again — several 
times.  They  are  the  portraits  of  my  own  people.  A  man  can- 
not cut  himself  off  from  his  own  people  any  more  than  he  can 
cut  himself  off  from  his  own  posterity." 

"  If  you  will  only  read  the  history  of  your  ancestors  as  your 
father  set  it  down,  you  will  no  longer  desire  to  belong  to  them." 

"  ^Vrong,  Marjorie,  wrong.  It  is  not  a  question  of  what  I 
should  wish ;  it  is  the  stubborn  fact  that  I  belong  to  them. 
Their  history  may  be  tragic,  or  criminal,  or  sordid,  or  anything 
you  please ;  but  it  is  part  of  my  history  as  well." 

"  Then  read  those  papers." 

"No,  I  will  not  read  them.  You  shall  tell  me,  if  you  please, 
some  time  or  other.  Now,  I  have  talked  it  over  with  Nicholson. 
He  quite  thinks  the  housewoidd  suit  us." 

"Does  Mr.  Nicholson,  your  father's  old  fiieud,  approve?" 

"  I  have  not  asked  for  his  a])proval." 


THE    NURSERY  33 

Lncian  did  not  explain  that  Mr.  Nicholson  had  expressed  a 
strong  opinion  on  the  other  side,  nor  did  he  inform  her  of  Mr. 
Nicholson's  last  words,  which  were:  "If  you  take  this  house, 
Lucian,  you  will  end  by  claiming  the  estates.     I  have  no  rig-tit  ■ 
to  say  anything ;  but — it  is  ill-gotten  money." 

"  I  say,"  Lucian  repeated,  "  that  I  act  on  my  own  approval. 
Well,  Nicholson  has  found  at  the  office — my  grandfather's  office 
— that  I  can  take  the  house  on  reasonable  terms,  and  that  I  can 
have  the  furniture  and  everything  at  a  valuation." 

"  Oh  !     Those  portraits  drag  you  to  the  house,  Lucian." 

"  They  do.  I  am  not  a  superstitious  man,  my  dear ;  I  laugh 
at  the  alleged  curse  on  the  money  ;  yet  I  accede  to  my  father's 
■wish,  and  I  will  not  claim  that  great  fortune — we  don't  want  to 
be  rich;  nor  will  I  resume  my  proper  name,  which  would  cause 
awkwardness.     But  I  want  to  feel  myself  a  link  in  the  chain." 

"  Alas,"  she  sighed,  "  what  a  chain  !" 

"  And  I  want  to  return  to  my  own  people.  They  may  keep 
their  fortune.  But  since  they  have  transmitted  to  me  their 
qualities  —  such  as  they  are  —  I  would  live  among  them,  Mar- 
jorie  !"     He  held  out  his  hands.     "  You  know  my  wish." 

She  took  them.  She  fell  into  his  arms.  "  Oh !  my  dear," 
she  cried,  laughing  and  crying,  "  who  can  resist  you  ?  Since  you 
must,  you  must.  Being  so  very  wilful,  you  must.  We  will  go — 
those  faces  on  the  walls  are  stronger  than  I — we  will  go  there 
— since  nothing  else  will  please  you.  But,  oh  !  my  Lucian, 
what  will  happen  to  us  when  we  get  there  ?" 

This  step  once  resolved  upon,  it  was  agreed  that  she  should 
first  see  the  house.     But  she  made  one  condition. 

"  If,"  she  said,  "  we  take  that  house  and  buy  those  pictures, 
I  must  tell  you  who  and  what  were  the  people  whose  portraits 
they  are.  At  least,  Lucian,  you  should  not  be  tempted  to  pay 
them  any  reverence." 

"  As  you  please,  Margaret,"  he  replied,  carelessly.  "  Of 
course,  I  don't  expect  chronicles  of  virtue ;  they  would  be  mo- 
notonous. I  am  sure  that  the  forefathers  of  the  deceased  must, 
like  him,  have  had  a  rooted  dislike  to  the  monotony  of  virtue." 

And  then  occurred  a  very  curious  thing.  The  girl's  mind  had 
been  filled  with  tcrrur,  gloomy  forebodings,  presentiments.  Slic 
had  read  those  papers,  she  knew  the  family   history,  she  was 

2*  ■ 


34  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

weiglied  down  by  the  sins  of  all  these  ancestors.  But  when  it 
was  resolved  to  take  the  liouse,  when  the  possible  became  the 
actual,  she  found  to  her  astonishment  that  the  ghosts  vanished — 
as  Lucian  had  said,  the  past  was  old  history — old  history — what 
did  it  matter  to  them  ? 

It  was,  she  found,  a  lovely  old  house.  Steps,  side  steps,  with 
a  good  old  iron  railing,  led  to  the  stoop  and  to  the  front  door. 
There  were  three  stories,  each  with  three  windows  ;  there  was  a 
steep  red-tiled  roof  with  dormer-windows.  Over  the  whole  front 
hung  a  thick  green  curtain  of  Virginia- creeper.  The  shut- 
ters, indeed,  were  closed,  which  partly  concealed  the  uncleaned 
condition  of  the  windows.  On  the  other  side  of  the  street  was 
the  old  gray  wall  of  the  Cathedral  precincts — did  Edward  the 
Confessor  build  that  wall,  or  was  it  an  earlier  work  still  ? — the 
work  of  Dunstan,  what  time  his  Majesty  King  Edgar  endowed 
the  Abbey  ? 

"  Is  it  a  lovely  old  place  outside  ?"  asked  Lucian,  eagerly. 
"  Is  it  a  quiet,  peaceful  spot  V 

"  It  is  all  that  you  say,  Lucian." 

"  Now,  my  dear,  you  shall  see  the  inside  of  it.  Remember 
ttat  it  has  not  been  cleaned  for  ever  so  long.  Don't  judge  of 
it,  quite,  by  its  present  aspect." 

With  his  borrowed  latch-key  Lucian  opened  the  door,  and 
they  stepped  in.  The  place  was  quite  empty  ;  the  old  woman 
was  gone ;  the  shutters  were  closed ;  the  furniture,  it  is  true, 
was  left ;  but  furniture  without  life  makes  a  house  feel  more 
deserted  than  even  when  the  rooms  are  empty.  Another  well- 
known  point  about  an  empty  house  is  that,  as  soon  as  people  go 
out,  it  is  instantly  seized  upon  by  echoes;  if  it  remains  long 
empty  it  receives  a  large  collection  of  echoes.  When  Lucian 
shut  the  street  door,  the  reverberation  echoed  up  the  walls  of 
the  stairs  from  side  to  side ;  then  it  came  down  again  more 
slowly,  and  then  more  slowly  still  climbed  up  the  walls  again, 
dying  away  with  obvious  reluctance.  Lucian  said  something,  a 
word  of  welcome ;  his  voice  rolled  about  the  stairs,  and  was 
repeated  from  wall  to  wall ;  he  walked  across  the  hall,  his  foot- 
steps followed  his  voice,  as  his  voice  had  followed  the  shutting 
of  the  door. 

"  The  house  is  all  echoes,"  said  Margaret.     Her  voice  was 


THE    NURSERY  35 

not  strong  enough  to  be  rolled  up  the  stairs,  but  her  sibilants 
were  caught,  and  Echo  returned  a  prolonged  hiss. 

"Only  because  it  is  empty.  Echoes  are  odd  things.  Thev 
never  stay  in  an  inhabited  house.  They  like  solitary  places,  I 
suppose."  Lucian  opened  the  door  of  the  back  parlor,  which, 
with  the  shutters  closed,  looked  like  a  black  cave  in  which  any- 
thing might  be  found.  "This  is  the  room" — he  lowered  his 
voice — "  in  which  the  old  man  lived  and  died.  Quite  a  happy 
old  man,  he  is  said  to  have  been.  Serenely  happy  in  the  mem- 
ory of  his  little  iniquities.  He  was  no  more  troubled  with  re- 
morse in  his  age  than  he  was  with  scruples  in  his  manhood. 
Curious  !  Most  very  wicked  people  are  happy,  I  believe.  Seems 
a  kind  of  compensation — doesn't  it  ?"  He  pulled  back  the  shut- 
ters and  let  in  the  sunlight, 

"  There  !  Now,  Margaret,  my  dear,  you  behold  the  con- 
sulting-room of  Lucian  Calvert,  M.D.  Here  he  will  sit  and 
receive  his  patients.  They  will  flock  to  him  by  crowds — the 
lords ;  the  members  of  Parliament ;  the  Canons  of  West- 
minster ;  the  engineers  from  George  Street ;  the  people  from 
the  Treasury,  the  Colonial  Office,  the  India  Office,  the  Board  of 
Works,  the  Board  of  Trade,  the  Educational  Department — they 
will  all  flock  to  me  for  consultation.  They  will  wait  in  the  front 
room.  Not  a  physician  in  Harley  Street  will  be  better  housed 
than  T.  AVe  will  breakfast  and  dine  in  the  waiting-room.  Up- 
stairs you  shall  have  your  own  rooms — drawing-room,  boudoir, 
everything.     This  is  to  be  the  patients'  waiting-room." 

He  opened  the  door  of  communication  with  the  front  room, 
and  strode  across  in  the  darkness  to  open  the  shutters.  The 
room  was  furnished  with  a  dining-table,  but  no  one  had  dined 
in  it  for  a  hundred  years.  In  the  miser's  time  there  was  no 
dinner  at  all ;  in  his  successor's  time  the  room  at  the  back  was 
used  as  a  living-room.  The  place  was  inconceivably  dirty  and 
neglected. 

"  Oh  !  what  dust  and  dirt !"  cried  the  girl.  "  Shall  we  ever 
get  it  clean  and  presentable  ?  Look  at  tlie  windows !  "When 
were  they  cleaned  last?     And  the  ceilings !     They  are  black!" 

"  Dirt  is  only  matter  in  the  wrong  place.  Bring  along  a  mop 
and  a  bucket  and  transfer  it  to  the  right  place.  We  will  trans- 
form these  rooms.      A  little    now    paint  —  pearl -grav,   do   ymi 


36  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

think?  With  a  touch  of  color  for  the  panels  and  the  dado,  a 
new  carpet,  new  curtains,  white  ceilintij,  clean  windows — " 

"  ^Yllat  a  lot  of  money  it  will  take  !" 

"AVe  will  make  the  money.  Patients  will  flock  in;  I  shall 
finish  my  book.  Courage,  dear  girl.  And  now,  if  you  please, 
■we  will  go  right  up  to  the  top  floor  first.  How  the  old  house 
echoes!"  He  lifted  his  voice  and  sang  a  few  bars  as  they 
stepped  back  into  the  hall.  Instantly  there  was  awakened  a 
choir  of  voices — a  hundred  voices  at  least,  all  singing,  ringing, 
repeating  the  notes  backward  and  forward  and  up  and  down. 

"  I  believe  the  house  is  full  of  ghosts,"  said  Margaret.  "  With- 
out you,  Lucian,  I  should  be  afraid  to  go  up  the  stairs." 

"  I  wish  it  was  full  of  ghosts,"  Lucian  replied.  And  up  and 
down  the  stairs  the  echoes  repeated:  "  I  wish— I  wish — I  wish 
— it  was — was — was — " 

Margaret  laughed. 

"  When  I  am  the  wife  of  a  scientific  person,"  she  said,  "  I 
must  leave  off  believing  in  ghosts.  Just  at  present  and  in  this 
empty  house  I  seem  to  feel  the  ghosts  of  your  ancestors.  They 
are  coming  up-stairs  with  us." 

They  were  broad  and  ample  stairs,  such  as  builders  loved  when 
these  were  constructed. 

"  But  they  were  made  for  hoops,"  said  Margaret. 

The  old  carpet,  worn  into  holes  and  shreds,  its  outlines  gone, 
still  stuck  by  force  of  habit  in  its  place. 

"  There  were  two  misers  in  succession,"  said  Margaret ;  "  there- 
fore this  carpet  must  be  a  hundred  years  old  at  least.  I  wonder 
it  has  lasted  so  long." 

"  My  grandfather  stepped  carefully  upon  the  holes,"  said  Lu- 
cian, "  in  order  to  preserve  the  rest.  I  think  I  see  him  going 
up  and  down  very  carefully." 

"If  we  were  to  meet  one  of  the  ancestors  stepping  down  the 
stairs  in  a  satin  coat  and  a  wig  and  laced  rutHes,  should  you  be 
surprised,  Lucian  V 

"  Not  a  bit.  First  floor.  Let  us  go  on.  It  is  a  noble  stair- 
case, and  when  we've  got  through  with  the  whitewasher  and  the 
painter,  and  have  the  stair-window  cleaned,  it  will  look  very  fine. 
Second  floor — one  more  flight." 

They  stood  on  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs;  two  or 


THE    NURSERY  37 

three  dust-covered  boxes  lay  scattered  about  carelessly,  as  if  no 
one  had  been  up  there  for  a  very  long  time.  Two  closed  doors 
faced  them.  In  one  was  a  key ;  Lucian  unlocked  it  and  threw 
the  door  open. 

"  It's  the  nursery  !"  cried  Margaret.  "  Why,  it  is  the  old,  old 
nursery  !"  She  stepped  in  and  threw  open  the  windows — they 
were  the  two  picturesque  dormers  that  had  caught  her  eyes  in 
the  street.  "There!  A  little  fresh  air — and  now  — "  She 
turned  and  looked  again  at  the  evidence  of  ancient  histoiy. 
"  Why  !"  she  said,  sitting  on  the  bed.  "  Here  grew  up  the 
innocent  children  who  afterwards — they  were  innocent  then,  I 
suppose  —  afterwards  became  —  what  they  were.  Here  they 
played  with  their  innocent  mothers.  Oh  !  Lucian,  my  history 
says  so  little  about  the  wives  and  mothers.  They  had  some 
brief  time  of  happiness,  I  hope,  in  this  room  while  the  babes 
grew  into  little  children,  and  the  children  grew  tall — and  my 
history  says  nothing  about  the  girls.  There  must  have  been 
girls.  Did  they  run  away  ?  Did  they  disgrace  their  name  and 
themselves?  Do  you  think  they  were  girls  as  much  ashamed 
of  their  people  as  we  can  be,  Lucian  ? — because  thy  people  are 
my  people,  you  know,  and  where  thou  goest,  I  go  too.  And  in 
this  house  I  shall  become  a  successor  to  these  wives,  whose 
sons  were  your  grandfathers."     The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Nay,  my  Margaret,  but  not  an  unhappy  successor.  What 
does  it  matter  if  these  women  were  unhappy?  Old  histories — 
old  histories !  Let  us  trust,  my  Jear,  in  ourselves,  and  fear  no 
bogies." 

"  Yes,  we  will  trust  in  ourselves,  Lucian."  She  got  up  and 
examined  the  room  more  closely. 

Against  the  wall  there  stood  a  cradle ;  not  one  of  the  little 
dainty  baskets  of  modern  custom,  but  a  stout,  solid,  wooden 
cradle,  with  strong  wooden  rollers,  carved  sides,  and  a  carved 
wooden  head  ;  a  thing  that  may  have  been  hundreds  of  years 
old.  The  little  blankets  were  lying  folded  up  ready  for  use  on 
the  little  feather-bed,  but  both  blankets  and  bed  were  moth- 
eaten  and  covered  with  dust — for  the  room  had  not  been  opened 
for  fifty  years.  Beside  the  cradle  was  a  low  washing  arrange- 
ment, for  children's  use,  a  thing  used  before  the  invention  of  the 
modern  bath ;  in  one  corner  was  a  small  wooden  bed,  a  four- 


gg  BEYOND    THE    DllEAMR    OF    AVARICE 

poster,  without  head  or  hangings,  but  with  a  feather-hcd  also 
eaten  in  holes  and  gaps ;  in  another  corner  the  children's  bed, 
a  low  truckle-bed  of  the  time  when  children  were  put  two  and 
three  together  in  one  bed ;  on  the  niantel-shelf  were  basins  and 
spoons,  and  a  tinder-box,  and  an  old-fashioned  night-light  in  its 
pierced  iron  frame.  There  were  two  or  tliree  chairs,  a  chest  of 
drawers,  a  small  table,  a  high  brass  fender,  and  a  cupboard. 

"  The  nursery,"  Margaret  repeated,  with  a  kind  of  awe.  The 
discovery  moved  her  strangely.  The  dust  lay  thick  upon  the 
beds  and  the  cradle  and  everything.  When  the  last  children 
died,  and  the  mother  died,  and  the  last  son  left  tlie  house,  the 
door  of  the  nursery  was  shut,  and  for  fifty  years  remained 
shut.  She  pulled  open  the  top  drawer  of  the  chest.  There 
were  lying  in  it,  carefully  folded  and  put  away,  the  complete 
trousseau  of  a  baby.  Such  beautiful  clothes  they  were,  with 
such  cunning  and  craft  of  embroidery  and  needle-work  as  be- 
lono-ed  to  the  time  when  things  were  made  and  not  bought.  In 
those  ancient  days  things,  because  they  were  made,  and  excel- 
lently made  with  skill  and  patience  and  pride,  were  much 
prized,  and  were  handed  down  from  mother  to  daughter-in-law, 
insomuch  that  this  dainty  frock  in  long  clothes  might  have 
served  for  generation  after  generation  of  babies  in  this  family 
of  Burley.  Margaret  turned  over  the  things  with  the  artistic 
curiosity  of  one  who  recognizes  good  work  more  than  with  the 
sympathetic  interest  of  a  possible  matron,  who  considers  the  use 
for  which  it  was  designed. 

The  other  drawers  contained  things  belonging  to  children  a 
little  older — frocks,  socks,  shoes,  sashes,  ribbons,  petticoats,  and 
whatever  is  wanted  to  adorn  and  protect  a  child  of  three  or 
four. 

"  See,"  she  said,  holding  up  a  long  baby  frock,  "  the  beauty 
of  the  work.  Ah  !  In  such  a  house  as  this  it  relieves  the 
mind  only  to  see  such  evidences  of  loving  work.  Love  means 
happiness,  Lucian,  for  a  woman  at  least.  Wliile  the  patient  fin- 
gers were  embroidering  this  frock,  the  woman's  heart  must  have 
been  at  rest  and  in  happiness.  Yet  they  were  going  to  be  so 
miserable  from  mother  to  daughter-in-law,  all  of  them.  Oh  !  I  am 
so  glad  we  have  seen  this  room.  It  is  like  a  gleam  and  glimpse  of 
sunshine.     Five  generations  of  women  lived  here — all  of  them. 


THE    NURSERY  39 

one  after  the  other,  doomed  in  the  end  to  misery.  Five  gen- 
erations!  And  we,  Lucian  —  we  begin  afresh.  If  I  thouglit 
otherwise — but  these  poor  women  had  unrighteous  lords — and 
I—" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand.  "  We  begin  anew,"  lie 
said.     "  Courage  !  we  begin  anew." 

She  threw  open  the  cupboard.  There  were  hanging  up 
within  two  or  three  dresses  of  ancient  fashion. 

"  Strange,"  said  Margaret,  "■  that  these  things  should  be  left. 
See,  they  belong  to  the  time  of  George  IV.  The  sleeves  are  re- 
turning to  that  fashion.  I  suppose  the  last  two  tenants  would 
suffer  nothing  to  be  destroyed.  Look — here  are  their  toys — 
even  the  children's  toys  kept !  Here  they  are :  broken  dolls, 
battledoors,  Noah's  arks,  cup  and  ball,  wooden  soldiers,  puzzles, 
picture-books.  I  must  come  up  here  again,"  she  added  ;  "I  must 
come  up  alone  and  turn  out  this  cupboard  at  my  leisure.  Lu- 
cian, in  such  a  place  as  this — in  the  old  nursery  one  feels  the 
reality  of  the  family.  There  are  women  and  children,  mothers, 
wives,  daughters,  in  the  family.  You  can't  understand  it  simply 
by  reading  about  the  wickedness  of  the  men.  It  is  like  a  his- 
tory which  concerns  itself  only  with  the  campaigns  of  generals 
and  the  oppression  of  kings.  Here  one  feels  the  presence  of  the 
mothers  and  the  children."  She  sighed  again.  "  Poor  unfort- 
unate mothers !"  she  said.  "  Lucian,  I  charge  you,  when  yon 
send  in  your  workmen,  leave  the  nursery  untouched.  This  sliall 
be  mine." 

"  Yes,  dear,  it  shall  be  yours — your  own." 

"  The  room  is  full  of  ghosts,  Lucian. "  I  am  not  afraid  of 
tliem ;  but  I  feel  them.  If  I  were  to  stay  here  long,  I  should 
see  them.     Let  us  go  into  the  next  room." 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE    PRODIGAL    SON 


The  other  room,  the  back  attic,  was  locked,  and  there  was  no 
key  in  the  door.  Lucian  turned  the  handle  and  pressed  with 
his  shoulder.    The  lock  broke  off  inside,  and  the  door  tlew  open. 

"  Ouf  !"  cried  Lucian.  "  What  a  dust !  What  an  atmos- 
phere !"  The  sun  was  struggling  through  the  window,  which 
was  covered  inside  with  cobweb,  and  outside  with  the  unwashed 
layers  of  many  years'  coal  smoke,  lie  tried  to  throw  up  the 
sash,  but  the  cords  were  broken  ;  he  lifted  it  up  and  propped 
it  with  a  book  which  ho  took  from  a  shelf  hanging  beside  the 
window.  "  So  !"  he  said.  "  Why,  what  in  the  world  have  we 
here  ?" 

The  room  was  furnished  with  a  four-post  bed.  The  hangings, 
which  had  never  been  removed,  were  in  colorless  tatters  ;  every- 
thing was  devoured  by  moth  ;  but  the  bed  was  still  made — 
sheets,  blankets,  and  coverlet — and  so  had  remained  fur  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years.  There  was  a  single  chair  in  the  room — a 
wooden  chair;  there  was  a  mahogany  table,  small,  but  of  good 
workmanship ;  on  the  table  were  the  brushes  and  palette  of  a 
painter;  a  violin-case  lay  half  under  the  bed  ;  the  inkstand  with 
the  quilUpens,  the  paper,  and  the  pouncet-box  still  lay  on  the 
table  as  they  had  been  left ;  the  books  on  the  shelf — Lucian 
looked  at  them — were  chiefly  volumes  of  poetry. 

"  See,  Lucian  !    The  walls  are  covered  with  paintings !" 

So  they  were  ;  the  sloping  walls  of  the  attic,  which  had  been 
plastered  white,  were  covered  all  over  with  paintings  in  oil. 
They  represented  nymphs  and  satyrs,  flowers  and  fountains, 
woods  and  lakes,  terraces  and  walks,  gardens  and  alleys  of  the 
Dutch  kind,  streets  with  signs  hanging  before  the  houses,  and 
ladies  with  hoops.     The  paintings  were  not  exactly  executed  by 


THE    PRODIGAL    SOX  41 

tlie  hand  of  a  master ;  the  drawing  was  weak  and  the  color  faded. 
Each  picture  was  signed  in  the  left-hand  corner  "J.  C.  B.," 
with  dates  varying  from  1725  to  1V35. 

"  What  is  the  history  of  these  things?" 

"  I  think  I  know,"  Margaret  said,  softly.  "  There  is  a  pict- 
ure. Oh  !"  she  shuddered,  "  I  am  sure  the  date  corresponds. 
How  shall  I  tell  you,  Lucian  ?" 

The  picture  hung  over  the  mantel -shelf,  turned  face  to  the 
wall.  Lucian  turned  it  round.  It  represented  a  young  man 
about  twenty-five  years  of  age.  He  was  richly  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  the  time — about  1735  ;  he  wore  a  purple  coat  with  a 
flowered  silk  waistcoat  and  lace  ruffles.  His  hat  was  trimmed 
with  gold  lace  ;  his  fingers,  covered  with  rings,  resting  lightly 
on  the  gold  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"  The  man  was  a  gentleman,  at  least !"  cried  his  descendant. 

His  handsome  face  was  filled  with  gallantry  and  pride.  One 
could  see  that  he  was  a  young  man  with  a  good  deal  of  eigh- 
teenth -  century  side  and  swagger ;  one  recognized  his  kind — 
always  ready  for  love  or  for  fighting;  one  could  picture  him 
standing  up  in  the  pit  of  the  theatre,  sitting  among  the  rufflers  and 
bullies  of  the  tavern,  the  terror  of  the  street,  a  gallant  in  the 
Park. 

Margaret  said  something  to  this  effect,  but  not  much,  because, 
in  truth,  her  knowledge  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  limited. 
*'  He  is  handsome,"  she  said,  "  but  not  in  the  best  way.  It  is 
a  sensual  face,  though  it  is  so  young.  See — Lucian  !  There 
are  his  initials,  J.  C.  B.,  with  the  date  1735.  It  is  the  painter 
of  these  pictures.  I  will  tell  you  about  him,  Lucian.  This  is 
clearly  his  own  room,  the  place  where  he  practised  art  when  he 
was  a  boy — where  he  lived  until  he  left  his  father's  house.  His 
name  was  the  same  that  they  all  bore,  you  know,  John  Calvert 
Burley,  and  he  was  the  son  of  Calvert  Burley — of  whom  I  will 
tell  yon  presently — the  man  who  began  the  fortunes  of  the  fam- 
ily. When  this  man  was  young  he  was  full  of  promise  ;  he  was 
an  artist — these  must  be  his  paintings ;  he  was  a  musician. 
See — "  She  pointed  to  the  violin-case.  "  He  was  a  poet,  or  at 
least  a  writer  of  songs."  The  book-shelf  was  filled  with  books 
of  verse.  "  He  was  a  dramatist  who  wrote  a  comedy  which  was 
played  at  Drury  Lane ;    and  there  were  other  things  in  which 


42  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

he  was  stilled  that  I  do  not  remember.     All  these  facts  arc 
noted  in  your  father's  papers." 

Lucian  nodded  to  his  ancestor.  "  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  "  that 
I  have  a  forefather  of  so  much  distinction.  IV'rrait  me  to  say 
so  much,  sir,  although  I  have  renounced  you." 

"  Wait,  Lucian.  This  room  has  been  locked  up  since  his 
death.  That  was  in  1750,  Your  father  mentions  the  room 
that  was  always  locked  up.  It  was  this  man's  room.  Upon  him, 
your  father  writes,  the  vengeance  first  fell  for  his  father's  sins." 

"  Oh  !"  Lucian  interrupted,  impatiently,  "  please  do  not  talk 
to  me  about  vengeance  for  another  man's  sins.  How  can  such 
a  thing  be  ?    Besides,  had  this  man  none  of  his  own  ?" 

"  Unfortunately — yes.  That  was  part  of  the  vengeance.  He 
was  all  wickedness.  Clever  as  he  was,  bright  and  clever,  and 
good-looking  when  he  was  young,  he  became  a  profligate  and — 
and — everything  that  you  can  imagine  in  the  way  of  wicked- 
ness, after  he  grew  up.  People  must  have  spoiled  him  when  he 
was  a  boy.  There  is  a  great  deal  about  him  in  your  father's 
papers.  His  name  should  have  been  Absalom.  I  have  been 
thinking  lately  about  this  unhappy  man.  People  should  not 
spoil  clever  boys.  He  was  good-looking — well,  look  at  the 
portrait.  Handsome  Jack  Burley  they  used  to  call  him.  He 
quarrelled  with  his  father — I  do  not  know  why — and  then  he 
lived  by  his  wits — lived  on  the  town.  How  did  young  men 
live  on  the  town,  Lucian,  a  hundred  years  ago  ?" 

"  I  don't  very  well  know.  Much  as  they  do  now,  I  suppose. 
They  played  cards  and  won  ;  and  games  of  chance,  and  won ; 
they  borrowed  money  of  their  friends  and  did  not  pay  it  back ; 
they  took  presents  from  rich  ladies — whose  hearts  they  after- 
wards broke;  they  ran  away  with  heiresses;  finally,  they  got 
into  the  Fleet  Prison  and  starved,  or  they  took  to  the  road  and 
were  hanged.  Then  my  ancestor  here  was  quite  a  model  profli- 
gate, I  take  it.  l*crhaps  Tom  Jones  had  this  man's  career  be- 
fore him  as  a  model." 

"  You  have  stated  his  case  exactly.     He  married  an  heiress 

and  he  sq\iandered  her  fortune.     Then  she  left  him  and  came 

here  with   her  child.     He  was   brought   up   in  the  nursery  we 

have  just  left;  I  suppose  that  we  have  seen  his  baby-clothes." 

"Well,  and  what  became  of  that  prodigal?    Did  he  repent 


THE    PRODIGAL    SON  43 

and  come  home  again  ?  Or  was  lie  presently  brought  to  tho 
Fleet  Prison  ?" 

"  No,  Lucian,"  she  replied,  gravely.  "  This  bright  and  gal- 
lant gentleman" — she  pointed  to  the  picture — "who  looks  as 
if  there  were  no  laws  of  God  to  be  feared,  chose  one  of  the 
two  lines  you  have  indicated.  But  it  was  the  road,  and  not  the 
Debtor's  Prison.     And  it  led  to — the  other  kind  of  prison." 

"Oh!"  But  Lucian's  face  flushed  a  little.  "You  mean, 
Margaret,  that  this  gay  and  gallant  gentleman  was — in  point 
of  fact—" 

"  Yes.  A  fitting  end  for  him,  but  it  was  disgraceful  to  his 
people.  This  ancestor  was  hanged  at  Tyburn  for  a  highway 
robbery.  His  father  turned  the  portrait  to  the  wall  and  locked 
the  door.  That  was  in  the  year  1750.  And  the  room  has  never 
been  opened  since." 

"  Humph  !"  Lucian  stroked  his  chin  gravely.  "  Have  you 
any  more  such  stories  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  Two  or  three  more." 

"  After  all — old  history — old  history  !  "Who  would  care  now 
if  one's  descent  from  a  man  who  was  hanged  in  the  year  1750 
was  published  from  the  house-top  ?  No  one.  Old  history,  Mag. 
And  as  to  vengeance  for  his  father's  sins,  why,  you've  made  it 
clear  that  he  had  enough  of  his  own  to  justify  the  final  suspen- 
sion.    Shall  we  ever  use  this  room,  Maggie?" 

She  shuddered.  "  Who  could  sleep  here  ?"  she  said.  "  We 
will  turn  it,  perhaps,  into  a  storehouse  of  all  the  old  things — the 
children's  dresses  and  the  dolls,  perhaps,  out  of  the  nursery  ; 
and  the  toys  and  the  cradle  and  everything  else  that  belongs  to 
the  innocent  life.  If  the  ghost  of  this  wicked  man  still  haunts 
the  room,  he  may  profitably  be  reminded  of  the  days  of  inno- 
cence. Perhaps  he  has  repented,  long  since,  of  the  days  of  prod- 
igaHty.     I  don't  think  we  could  make  a  bedroom  here." 

"  Call  you  that  renouncing  of  my  ancestors,  Marjorie  ?  Why, 
you  are  bringing  all  the  mischief  you  can  upon  your  own  head 
by  acknowledging  that  you  know  the  stories.  The  wisest  thing 
to  do  would  be  to  clear  out  the  room — both  rooms — burn  the 
rubbish,  put  the  portrait  somewhere  else,  and  give  the  old-fash- 
ioned things  to  a  museum  of  domestic  manners  and  customs. 
Let  us  go  down-stairs." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE      POKTKAITS 

TiiEY  closed  the  door  and  went  down  to  the  next  floor.  Here 
there  were  three  bedrooms,  all  furnished  alike  and  with  solid- 
ity. Each  had  a  great  mahogany  fonr-postcr,  a  mahogany  chest 
of  drawers,  a  mahogany  dressing-table,  and  two  mahogany 
chairs;  there  was  a  carpet  in  each  ;  and  the  hangings  were  still 
round  the  beds,  but  in  dusty,  moth-eaten  tatters  and  rags.  There 
were  also  shelves  and  a  cupboard  in  each  room.  On  the  shelves 
were  books — school-books  of  the  early  part  of  this  century.  Lat- 
in grammars  in  Latin,  Greek  grammars  in  Latin,  Ovid  and  Cic- 
ero and  CorTielius  Nepos,  Gordon's  Geography,  the  Greek  Testa- 
ment, and  so  forth.  There  seemed  no  reason  to  linger  in  the  room. 
But  Margaret  opened  the  drawers.  Strange  !  they  were  all  filled 
with  things.  She  looked  into  the  cupboards;  they  also  were 
filled  with  things — clothes,  personal  effects.  "  Why,"  she  cried, 
"  they  did  not  even  take  away  their  clothes  !  Oh  !  I  know  now. 
They  left  them  here  when  they  ran  away,  and  here  they  have  re- 
mained ever  since.  I  will  tell  you  directly  all  about  them,  Lu- 
cian.  Look !  These  silk  gloves  must  have  belonged  to  Lucinda 
—  your  great-aunt.  She  ran  away.  And  in  the  other  room 
there  are  things  with  the  initials  II.  C.  B. — your  great- uncle 
Henry  ;  and  others  with  the  initials  of  C.  C.  B.  and  or  J.  C.  B, 
— your  great-uncles  Charles  and  James.  They,  too,  ran  away. 
I  will  tell  you  why  presently." 

On  the  first  floor  there  were  two  rooms  onl}',  at  the  front 
and  the  back.     They  opened  the  door  of  the  room  at  the  back. 

It  was  furnished  exactly  like  the  rooms  overhead,  only  that 
the  four-poster  was  larger.  The  carpet  and  the  hangings  and 
the  curtains  were  quite  as  moth-eaten  and  ragged  as  those  up- 
stairs. 


THE    PORTRAITS  45 

"  This  is  the  room  of  the  master,"  said  Margaret — "  your 
grandfather's  room.  For  fifty  years  he  was  alone.  His  wife  died 
about  the  year  1850  ;  and  when  his  son,  your  father,  left  him  he 
was  quite  alone,  and  the  house  has  been  in  silence  ever  since. 
Fancy  a  house,  a  thing  that  ought  never  to  be  without  young 
people,  condemned  to  silence  for  fifty  years  !  It  isn't  used  to 
noise.  The  echoes  take  up  your  voice  on  the  stairs ;  the  walls 
whisper  it,  as  if  they  were  afraid  to  speak  out  loud.  All  these 
years  of  silence  1  And  all  the  time  down-stairs  he  sat  and  reck- 
oned up  his  money." 

She  turned  away  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Lucian  !" — she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm — "  before  we 
go  to  see  the  portraits,  think.  In  your  father's  papers  is  an 
account  of  them  all.  Better  have  nothing  to  do  with  them — 
better  know  nothing  about  them." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  If  I  do  not  hear  now  I  shall  be  wanting  to 
read  the  confounded  papers  myself.  You  need  not  soften  the 
facts,  Margaret.  I  am  not  afraid.  Besides,  old  histories !  old 
histories !" 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  which  in  the  old 
days  when  it  was  furnished  was  called  the  best  parlor.  This 
was  the  state-room  of  the  house,  never  used  at  all  except  for 
weddings,  christenings,  and  funerals. 

The  furniture  was  stiff  and  rather  quaint.  The  chairs  and 
sofa  had  been  upholstered  with  stuff  once  green  ;  there  had  also 
been  gilt  about  the  legs  and  backs  ;  there  was  a  round  table  in 
the  middle  ;  there  was  a  card-table  between  the  windows ;  there 
was  a  cabinet  containing  a  few  curiosities ;  there  was  a  faded 
carpet,  partly  moth-eaten  ;  the  fireplace  and  fender  were  of  the 
old  fashion  ;  and  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  room. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Margaret,  "if  there  has  ever  been  any  festivity 
at  all  in  this  room  ?  Certainly  there  can  have  been  none  for 
two  hundred  years.  Is  there  anywhere  else  in  this  city  a  house 
with  a  drawing-room  which  for  two  hundred  years  has  never 
been  used  ?" 

But  the  walls  !  Round  the  wainscoted  walls  there  were  hung 
on  every  panel  the  portraits  of  the  family  ;  the  men  were  all 
there  ;  the  wives  and  the  daughters  were  all  there.  Two  or 
three  of  the  upper  shutters  of  the  windows  were  half  open,  and 


46  DEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

the  faces  were  just  visible  in  tlie  dim  light.  Liician  threw  open 
all  the  shutters. 

It  was  the  custom  all  through  the  last  century  in  every  family 
of  the  least  pretensions  or  importance  to  have  all  their  portraits 
taken.  In  the  time  of  great  Queen  Anne  the  limner  went  about 
the  country  from  house  to  house.  He  charged,  I  believe,  a 
guinea  for  a  portrait.  You  may  see  specimens  of  his  skill  pre- 
served in  country-houses  to  this  day.  Portraits,  in  time,  began 
to  rise  in  price  ;  it  became  an  outward  sign  of  prosperity  to 
Lave  your  portrait  taken.  During  this  present  century  many 
most  respectable  families  have  gone  without  portraits  alto- 
gether. Photographs,  of  course,  do  not  count.  In  the  Burley 
family  the  custom  prevailed  during  the  whole  of  last  century 
and  well  into  this.  All  the  sons  and  daughters  of  this  House 
were  figured  and  hung  in  frames,  which  sadly  wanted  regilding, 
upon  the  walls. 

"  My  ancestors."  Lucian  bowed  with  a  comprehensive  sweep 
of  his  arm.  "Ancestors!  I  present  to  you  your  granddaugh- 
ter-in-law  that  will  be.  We  have  renounced  your  works  and 
ways,  but  we  recognize  the  fact  of  the  relationship.  Maggie, 
you  have  something  rather  uncommon  to  tell  me  about  our  an- 
cestors, I  believe  ?  With  your  permission,  ancestors  !"  Again 
he  bowed,  gravely. 

"  Yes,  but  what  is  it  ?  Very  odd  !  Oh  !  I  see.  Most  of 
them  are  following  me  with  their  eyes  wherever  I  go.  What 
an  uncanny  thing !  How  came  the  painters  to  make  all  their 
eves  like  that?  It  looks  as  if  they  were  curious  to  see  the 
living  representative." 

"Let  them  follow,"  said  Lucian.  "Now,  historiographer  of 
the  ancient  House  of  Burley,  1  listen — I  sit  at  your  feet — I  wait 
to  learn." 

Margaret  was  walking  I'ound  the  room  looking  at  the  names 
and  dates  on  the  frames.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "these  are  your 
ancestors;  all  arc  here,  except  that  unhappy  man  for  whose 
sake  the  room  ui)-stairs  has  been  closed  all  these  years.  Now 
Lucian,  if  you  are  {)reparod — mind,  I  could  tell  yon  a  great  deal 
about  every  one — but  I  will  confine  myself  to  the  principal  facts. 
You  will  find  them  bad  enough." 

"  You   ought   to    have   a   white   wand."     Lucian    sat   down. 


THE    PORTRAITS  47 

«  Now — it  is  odd  Ijovv  the  eyes  arc  staring  at  me — I  am  ready- 
to  hear  tlie  worst." 

Over  the  mantel-shelf  hung  the  effigy  of  a  gentleman  in  a 
large  wig — a  wig  of  the  year  1720,  or  thereabouts.  A  certain 
fatness  of  cheek  with  a  satisfied  smugness  of  expression  charac- 
terizes most  portraits  of  this  period.  Both  were  wanting  in 
this  face.  It  was  hard  ;  the  eyes  were  hard ;  the  mouth  w'as 
hard  ;  the  face  was  determined;  the  forehead  showed  power,  the 
mouth  and  chin  determination.  Time,  who  is  often  an  excellent 
finisher  of  portraits,  and  occasionally  brings  out  the  real  charac- 
ter of  the  subject  much  more  effectively  than  the  original  lim- 
ner (but  he  takes  a  good  many  years  over  the  job),  had  cov- 
ered this  face  with  a  cloud  of  gloom  and  sadness. 

"  We  begin  with  this  man,"  said  Margaret.  "  He  is  Calvert 
Burley.  He  began,  however,  as  a  clerk,  or  servant  of  some 
kind,  to  a  City  merchant.  He  must  have  been  a  young  man  of 
ability,  because  he  rapidly  rose,  and  became  factor  or  confi.- 
dential  clerk.  What  he  did  was  this :  He  persuaded  his 
master,  who  entirely  trusted  him,  to  invest  a  great  sum  in  South 
Sea  stock.  With  a  part  of  the  money  he  bought  shares  in  his 
o-wn  name,  falsifying  the  figures  to  prevent  being  found  out. 
The  shares,  as  he  expected,  went  higher  and  higher,  till  they 
reached — I  don't  know  what — and  then  he  sold  his  own  shares 
to  his  own  master  at  the  highest  price.  Then  the  crash  came. 
He  really  looks,  Lucian,  as  if  he  heard  every  word  we  are  say- 
ing." 

"  Let  him  answer  the  charge,  then." 

"Well,  the  unfortunate  merchant  was  ruined  ;  his  clerk  who 
had  made  an  immense  profit  upon  every  share  he  held — I  know 
not  how  many  tliere  were — stepped  into  his  place.  This  was 
the  origin  of  the  fortunes  of  the  House." 

"  And  the  confiding  merchant?" 

"  He  died  in  the  Fleet.  His  former  clerk  would  not  send  him 
so  much  as  a  guinea  when  he  was  starving.  Well,  Calvert 
from  a  servant  became  a  master ;  from  a  factor  he  became  a 
merchant.  I  suppose  that  no  one  found  out  what  he  had 
done." 

"  How  was  it  found  out,  then  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  read  it  in  your  father's  papers. 


48  llEYONU    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"  ITuinpli !  I  should  like  to  hear  Mr.  Calvert  Barley's  own 
account  of  the  transaction." 

"  That  was  what  your  father  meant  when  he  said  that  the 
fortunes  of  the  House  were  founded  on  dishonor." 

"  Yes."  Lucian  looked  at  the  portrait,  who  fixed  upon  him 
from  under  Mack  eyebrows  a  pair  of  keen,  searching  eyes,  lie 
got  up  and  looked  more  closely.  "  Yes,"  he  repeated,  "  I  should 
like  to  hear  your  own  account  of  the  transaction,  my  ancestor. 
Because  you  look  as  if  you  could  put  it  differently." 

"  Lucian,  stand  there  a  moment  beside  the  portrait,  so  the 
light  upon  your  face  is  the  same.  Oh  !  you  are  so  like  him. 
You  have  the  same  strong  face,  the  same  eyes,  and  the  same 
mouth.  Lucian,  your  strength  was  his,  but  he  turned  his 
strength  to  evil  purposes." 

Lucian  laughed.  "  At  all  events,  my  Marjorie,  I  shall  not 
invest  my  master's  money  in  my  own  name." 

"  You  are  exactly  like  him.  But,  of  course,  what  does  it 
matter  ?  Well,  you  heard  up-stairs  how  vengeance  fell  upon 
this  man  through  his  son." 

"  Not  at  all.  1  heard  up-stairs  how  the  son  was  rightly  pun- 
ished for  his  own  crimes — not  for  his  father's  crimes  at  all,  I 
am  quite  sure  that  the  judge  who  sentenced  him  made  no  al- 
hision  to  his  father." 

"  Well,  he  had  no  happiness  with  liis  money  ;  for  his  eldest 
child  ended  as  you  have  heard,  and  his  only  daughter  died  of 
small-pox  at  the  age  of  twenty-two.  I  expect  this  must  be  her 
portrait."  It  was  one  of  a  very  pretty  girl ;  dark-eyed,  animat- 
ed, evidently  a  vivacious  and  pleasing  girl.  "  Poor  child  !  to 
die  so  young  ;  and  his  youngest,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  disappeared. 
They  thought  he  was  kidnapped.  It  is  all  in  your  father's 
papers." 

"  How  did  he  know  ?"  asked  Lucian. 

"  I  think  I  can  tell  you.  Beside  the  men  of  a  family,  there 
are  the  women.  The  men  work — for  good  or  evil.  The  women 
watch  ;  tliey  watch,  they  observe,  and  they  remember.  Do  you 
think  that  the  wife  of  Calvert  Burley — the  unhappy  wife  of  this 
man — did  not  know  what  her  husband  had  done?  When  her 
sons  and  her  daughter  were  taken  from  her,  do  you  think  she 
hid  in  her  heart  the  things  she  knew — the  money  got  by  fraud, 


THE    PORTRAITS  49 

the  starving  prisoner  in  the  Fleet?  Oh  no!  She  told  her 
danghter-in-law,  who  in  time  told  hers,  and  so  the  story  was 
handed  down  as  far  as  your  mother,  who  told  her  son." 

"  It  is  possible.     I  did  not  think  of  that." 

"  Men  never  think  of  the  women  who  watch.  If  they  did, 
how  long  would  the  wickedness  of  the  world  endure  V 

"  You  are  bitter,  my  Margaret." 

"  It  is  because  my  mind  is  full  of  the  women  of  your  own 
House.  Am  I  not  going  to  become  one  ?  See — the  next  panel 
is  empty.  That  is  because  the  portrait  is  up-stairs  in  the  room 
that  you  burst  open.  This  one  is  his  wife.  Poor  wretch ! 
She  is  young  now,  with  all  her  troubles  before  her — and  an 
heiress.  See  how  beautifully  she  is  dressed  !  My  dear  Lucian, 
when  her  husband  had  spent  all  her  money  and  deserted  her  ; 
when  she  came  here  with  her  infant;  when  the  news  arrived  of 
her  husband's  shameful  end — do  you  think  that  the  bereaved 
wife  and  the  bereaved  mother  did  not  sit  and  whisper  to  each 
other  words  of  the  Lord's  vengeance  ?" 

"  It  is  possible,"  Lucian  replied,  gravely.  "Old  supersti- 
tions !" 

Margaret  went  on  to  the  next  portrait.  It  had  upon  it  the 
date  of  1760.  The  big  wig  had  given  place  to  a  more  modest 
gear.  The  face  was  that  of  a  young  man.  "  He  is  the  son  of 
the  man  up-stairs,"  said  Margaret. 

There  was  little  of  his  father's  swagger  visible  in  this  young 
man's  face.  He  was  like  all  the  men  of  the  family,  endowed 
with  black  eyes  and  black  hair ;  there  was  no  force  of  character 
in  his  face :  his  mouth  was  weak ;  his  eyes  looked  upward 
— there  was  a  strange,  expectant  light  in  them — while  his  fore- 
liead  was  marked  with  a  straight  vertical  line.  The  expression 
of  this  man's  face  seemed  out  of  harmony  with  those  around  him. 

"  The  only  son  of  his  mother,"  said  Margaret.  "  He  married 
and  had  children,  but  I  know  not  how  many,  nor  what  became 
of  any  except  the  eldest.  I  believe  that  they  all  died  young 
except  that  one.  And  this  poor  man — what  he  did  I  know  not 
— whether  he  advanced  the  fortunes  of  the  family  I  cannot  tell 
you — but — he  wont  mad — " 

"  Mad  !  He  doesn't  seem  mad."  Yet  as  Lucian  looked  closer, 
he  saw  the  possibilities  of  madness  in  those  eyes. 


60  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  It  was  a  time,  you  know,  when  people  thought  a  great  deal 
about  the  safety  of  their  souls.  Many  became  mad  from  relig- 
ious terrors.  It  was  in  this  way  that  he  went  mad.  For  twelve 
years  he  was  cliained  to  the  floor  in  one  of  the  rooms  up-stairs. 
I  said  there  was  nothing  to  keep  us  there — I  was  afraid  of  find- 
ing the  marks  of  the  bolt  in  the  floor.  After  twelve  years  he 
died.     This  was  his  wife." 

"  The  history  becomes  more  cheerful  as  we  go  along.  Really," 
said  Lucian,  "there  never  was  such  an  unlucky  House.  And  all 
because  of  that  little  fraudulent  transaction  in  stocks.  Pray  go 
on." 

"  There  is  not  much  more  in  the  way  of  horrors.  The  next 
picture,  this  with  the  hair  tied  behind,  is  the  son  of  the  mad- 
man. You  see  it  is  dated  1790.  He  lived  to  the  year  1820, 
•when  he  died,  at  the  age  of  fifty.  What  should  you  say,  from 
the  look  of  the  man's  face,  was  his  character  ?" 

"  Well,  it  is  a  dark  and  rather  a  gloomy  face  ;  it  has  a  look  of 
the  original  Calvert,  but  without  his  power.  This  man  was  small; 
he  looks  small  and  narrow;  there  is  some  determination  in  his 
face  ;  and,  soujeliow,  the  painter  has  left  out  the  intellect.  Per- 
haps he  had  none.  What  did  he  do  ?  To  look  at  him  he  might 
have  been  a  small  retail  trader,  counting  up  his  little  profits  every 
day." 

"  Lucian,  you  are  cleverer  at  character-reading  than  I  thought. 
He  was  a  little  retail  trader — that  is  to  say,  he  became  a  miser 
— quite  a  celebrated  miser — one  of  the  misers  you  read  of  in 
books.  He  used  to  wander  about  the  streets  picking  up  crusts 
and  bones;  he  would  have  no  fire  in  the  coldest  ^yeather ;  he 
would  have  no  servant  in  the  house — had  he  not  a  wife  and  a 
daughter?  He  went  in  rags  himself;  his  sons  should  learn  to 
do  the  same.  It  is  said  that  at  night  he  would  beg  in  the 
streets,  or  hold  a  horse  or  call  a  hackney-coach.  But  he  left 
off  going  into  the  streets  because  the  boys  followed  and  hooted 
him.  He  weighed  out  the  food,  which  was  of  the  commonest 
and  cheapest  kind.  He  bought  scraps  of  the  butchers  and  stale 
loaves  of  the  bakers.      Nothing  was  too  bad  for  him." 

"  Oh  !  This  was  my  great-grandfather.  Very  pleasant,  in- 
deed— a  charming  ancestor  !" 

"  I  suppose  he  had  some  family  feeling,  because  he  had  act- 


"    THE    PORTRAITS  51 

ually  spent  money  on  having  his  children  painted.  Perliaps 
he  got  it  done  for  nothing.  But  here  they  are — first  his  wife ; 
I  suppose  they  are  the  family  jewels  which  she  wears.  You 
■  must  have  an  immense  number  of  cousins,  Lucian  ;  but  I  do  not 
know  who  they  are  because  the  papers  contain  no  information 
about  their  wives.  She  is  a  handsome  woman,  is  she  not,  your 
great-grandmother  ?  That  is  her  daughter  Luciuda.  Whenever 
there  is  a  daughter,  the  name  is  always  Lucinda.  You  see,  she 
wears  thesame  jewels  as  her  mother;  she  borrowed  them,  no 
doubt." 

"  Did  she  distinguish  herself  ?"  asked  Lucian. 

"  She  rebelled  against  the  miserly  rule  at  home  and  ran  away. 
It  is  also  stated  that  she  married,  but  her  married  name  is  not 
recorded,  and  I  know  nothing  more  about  her.  These  are  the 
four  sons  —  there  were  five  children  altogether.  They  are  a 
good-looking  lot  of  boys,  are  they  not  ?  Do  they  look  like  the 
sons  of  a  miser  ?'' 

Their  portraits  had  all  been  taken  in  the  same  year — probably 
at  so  much  the  job — by  a  painter  very  much  down  in  his-luck. 
They  were  not  ill-painted.  The  young  men  were  from  seven- 
teen to  two  or  three  and  twenty  ;  their  hair  was  curled  for  the 
occasion,  because  a  sitting  for  a  portrait  was  like  going  to  a 
party.  They  wore  high  stocks,  and  every  one  had  a  watch-chain 
hanging  from  the  fob. 

"  It  is  the  same  watch  and  chain,"  said  Margaret,  "  lent  to  one 
after  the  other." 

"  These  are  my  grandfather  and  my  great-uncles." 

"  Yes.  That  is  your  grandfather.  He  is  like  Calvert,  is  he 
not  ?  Curious  how  the  face  reappears — first  in  him  and  then 
in  you.  It  is  a  much  larger  face  than  his  predecessor's:  tliere 
is  more  intellect  in  it.  As  for  the  others,  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  this  one — the  second." 

"  He  is  exactly  like  the  gallant  highwayman.  Did  he  also 
take  to  the  road  ?  Was  he,  too,  conducted  in  trium{)h  to  the 
fatal  tree  ?" 

"  No.  Like  the  highwayman,  he  had  all  kinds  of  clever- 
nesses: he  could  make  music  on  anything,  and  he  could  sing  and 
make  verses.  He  ran  away  as  soon  as  he  was  eighteen  years  of 
aire — he  ran  awav  and  became  an  actor." 


53  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  Very  sensible  tiling,  too — mucli  better  than  taking  to  the 
road." 

"  Much  better.  lie  succeeded,  too.  lie  was  a  good  actor,  and 
became,  at  one  time,  lessee  and  manager  of  the  York  Theatre." 

"  His  grandchildren  will  put  in  a  claim  to  the  estate,  I  sup- 
pose !" 

"  You  Avill  not  mind  if  they  do,"  Margaret  replied  quickly. 
'     ''  Very  well.     Let  us  go  on  to  the  next.     Who  is  this  fellow  ? 
Why,  he  looks  like  the  man  who  went  mad — his  grandfather. 
Has  he  a  history,  too  ?" 

"  That  was  Charles.  I  said  that  there  were  other  tragedies. 
This  unlucky  young  man  ran  away  from  home,  and  I  think 
there  is  something  said  about  an  aunt  who  befriended  him.  He 
was  put  into  a  place  in  the  City,  and — I  hardly  know  what  he 
did  ;  I  think  it  was  a  forgery  "  (Lucian  groaned) ;  "  and  he  was 
tried  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  but  the  sentence  was  com- 
muted to  transportation  for  life.     So  he  went  to  Australia." 

"  Australia  is  not  so  far  off  as  it  was.  The  convict's  grand- 
children are  doubtless  on  their  way  home  to  get  the  estate." 

"  Very  likely."  Margaret  went  on  to  another :  "  This  was 
the  youngest  son,  James." 

"  There  is  a  touch  of  the  highwayman  about  him,  too,"  said 
Lucian.     "  How  did  he  distinguish  himself  T' 

"  Well,  he  ran  away,  of  course  ;  and  he  became  a  solicitor — 
I  don't  know  how  ;  and  then  he — he  took  away  his  employer's 
young  wife,  and  went  to  America." 

Lucian  sat  down.  "  Why  !"  he  cried.  "  It  is  a  great — it  is 
a  glorious  family  !     They  vie  with  each  othe-  in  greatness." 

"  That  is  all,  Lucian." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  cicerone.  You  have  spun  out  a  very  pret- 
ty history — one  that  could  be  told  of  very  few  families — very 
few  indeed.     I  think  I  ought  to  be  proud  of  such  an  ancestry." 

He  lapsed  into  silence.  As  he  sat  there  looking  up  at  the 
portrait  of  Calvert  Bnrley  the  resemblance  became  stronger. 
His  face  assumed  a  gloomy  look,  which  still  more  increased  the 
resemblance. 

"  After  all,  Margaret,"  he  said,  presently,  "why  should  we  not 
take  over  this  great  inheritance  ?  We  only  know,  in  general 
terms,  how  it  was  amassed.    Old  histories!    Old  histories!    What 


THE    PORTRAITS  53 

does  the  world  care  about  the  long  string  of  obscure  money- 
grubbers  and  criminals?" 

"  Is  it  the  question  what  the  world  knows,  Lucian  ?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  shook  himself.  "  I  believe,  with 
that  old  fellow  looking  down  upon  me,  I  could  persuade  myself 
into  anything.  Come,  my  dear,  let  us  have  done  with  them. 
We  have  renounced  their  works  and  their  ways," 

"  Take  down  the  portraits  and  burn  them,  Lucian.  Put  an 
end  to  the  memories  of  this  house." 

"  No ;  I  like  feeling  that  I  can  sit  among  my  forefathers, 
though  their  record  is  disgraceful.  But,  Marjorie  mine,  you 
have  seen  the  house.  Do  you  think  that  you  can  make  your 
home  here,  in  spite  of  all  these  memories  V 

"  I  think,  Lucian,"  she  replied,  slowly  and  with  hesitation, 
"  that  wjien  we  have  had  the  place  cleaned  and  painted  and 
whitewashed,  and  these  pictures  regilt,  and  carpets  laid  down, 
and  modern  things  put  in,  and  some  of  the  old  hangings  carted 
away,  that  it  will  be  different.  And  there  is  the  nursery.  And 
if  the  men  who  have  sinned  are  here  upon  the  walls,  so  are  the 
women,  who  have  suffered  and  wept  and  prayed.  It  seems  as 
if  they  will  protect  us  from  sorrows  like  their  own." 

"  Child  of  superstition  !  You  to  become  the  wife  of  a  scien- 
tific man  ?  From  sorrows,  my  dear  ?  I  Avill  protect  you  from 
sorrows," 

He  laid  his  arms — his  strong  arms — about  her  neck  and  kissed 
her  forehead. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "claimants  will  turn  up  from  the  children 
of  all  these  grand-uncles.  Of  one  thing  I  am  quite  resolved,  my 
dear.  If  I  am  not  to  take  this  inheritance,  I'm  hanged  if  any- 
body else  shall.  My  ancestors  " — he  waved  his  hand  compre- 
hensively— "  you  approve,  I  hope,  of  this  resolution  ?" 

It  was  as  if  the  portraits  all  with  accord  bowed  their  heads 
in  affirmation.  I  say  "as  if,"  because  neither  would  have  as- 
serted, positively,  that  the  portraits  actually  showed  this  inter- 
est in  things  mundane  ;  but  Margaret  afterwards  declared  that 
she  had  a  feeling — a  creepy,  supernatural  feeling — as  if  some- 
thing of  the  sort  had  happened.  The  whole  science  of  spiritual- 
ism is  built  upon  foundations  no  stronger, 

"Oh,  dear  Lucian  !"  she  said,  "it  is  only  by  giving  up  what 


54  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

tlicy  valued  so  mucb  that  we  can  escape  the  consequences  of 
belonging  to  this  House.  Do  not  scoff.  In  some  way  or  other 
the  children  must  suffer  from  the  father's  sins.  You  are  the 
grandchild  of  the  man  who  ruined  thousands  by  bis  money-lend- 
ing; of  the  miser  who  ruined  liis  whole  family  for  the  salvC  of 
his  hoards ;  of  the  poor  madman,  chained  to  the  floor  up-stairs 
because  he  thought  his  soul  was  lost;  of  the  liighwayman  who 
was  hanged  ;  of  the  man  who  grew  rich  by  ruining  the  master 
who  trusted  him.  What  a  record  !  Oh,  my  Lucian  !  if  I  thought 
that  you  would  resemble  any  of  these  men,  I  would  pray — since 
I  learned  their  history  I  have  prayed — that  you  n)ight  die  sud- 
denly and  at  once — that  we  might  die  together.  But  you  cannot 
resemble  them !" 

"  Margaret,  dear  " — liis  eyes  and  his  voice  softened — "do  not 
be  troubled.  1  make  you  a  promise  tliat  I  will  never  act  against 
my  father's  wish  unless  with  your  approval.    Are  you  satisfied?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    PRESS    UPON    WINDFALLS 

It  was  about  this  time — viz.,  a  month  or  six  weeks  after  the 
death  of  the  old  man — that  the  newspapers  began. 

First  there  appeared  in  all  the  journals  a  paragraph  reporting 
the  Inquest  of  Office ;  but,  as  the  news  editor  was  not  posted 
up  in  the  difference  between  an  ordinary  coroner's  inquest  and 
a  coroner's  Inquest  of  Office,  and  he  had  no  time  to  ask  ques- 
tions and  to  hunt  up  nice  points  of  law,  the  report  appeared 
among  those  of  the  ordinary  inquests.  In  most  of  the  papers 
it  was  jammed  in  between  an  inquiry  into  the  death  of  a  man 
found  drowned  and  tliat  of  a  child  run  over  by  a  cab.  There- 
fore, the  thing  attracted,  at  first,  little  attention.  Moreover,  the 
reporter,  a  young  man  of  small  imaginative  power,  was  not  in 
the  least  carried  away  by  the  coroner's  flights  of  fancy  and  poet- 
ical dream  of  half-millions.  He  went  by  the  evidence.  Nothing 
in  the  evidence  proved  the  extent  of  the  estate — in  fact,  as  you 
have  seen,  little  was  said  in  the  evidence  on  this  point.  There- 
fore, with  a  moderation  and  self-restraint  unusual  in  his  profes- 
sion, he  only  said  that  the  coroner  appeared  to  think  that  the 
estate  might  prove  to  be  of  considerable  value. 

Nothing  could  be  more  guarded,  or  less  likely  to  excite  any 
interest.  "  Considerable  value  !"  One  would  use  this  adjective, 
for  instance,  in  speaking  of  an  estate  worth  a  thousand  pounds. 
"  Considerable  "  means  anything.  Nobody  could  possibly  divine 
the  truth,  or  anything  like  a  fraction  of  the  truth.  Such  a  co- 
lossal truth  as  this  cannot  be  divined  or  imagined,  or  even  real- 
ized. We  realize  great  riches  by  one  simple  rule  or  formula. 
Man  says  to  man — with  mouth  wide  open  and  awe-struck  eyes : 
"  Sir,  he  might  give  me  a  thousand  pounds  and  never  feel  it !" 
That  is  the  only  way  in  which  we  can  arrive  at  anything  like 


5g  nEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVAIUCE 

an  understanding  of  the  rich  man's  mind  and  the  rich  man's 
fortune. 

As  the  present  order  continues,  fortunes  increase,  so  that  lie 
who  was  a  very  rich  man  indeed  a  liundred  years  ago  is  now 
reckoned  to  be  no  more  than  easy  in  his  circumstances.  Our  an- 
cestors tliought  very  highly  of  their  success  if  they  found  them- 
selves worth  a  hundred  tliousand  pounds,  poetically  called  a 
"plum!"  But  what  is  a  plum  now?  The  word  itself  remains 
of  course,  a  comfortable,  soft,  self-satisfied  word — a  plum;  but 
what  is  it?  A  bare  hundred  thousand  pounds — no  more  than 
three  thousand  pounds  a  year.  Call  that  great  wealth  ?  Wh}', 
a  man  with  a  modern  fortune  of  ten  millions  or  thereabouts — 
which  is,  one  admits,  a  large  fortune,  even  in  America — gets 
three  plums  and  a  half  every  year  at  a  little  over  3  per  cent. ; 
lie  gets  more  than  a  thousand  pounds  a  day,  not  counting  Sun- 
days. That  is  something  like  a  fortune,  and  since  there  are  but 
one  or  two  men  in  our  country  who  possess  anything  like  this 
income,  the  possibility  of  so  much  belonging  to  any  one  man  is 
by  the  general  run  of  us  quite  unsuspected. 

No  one,  then,  outside  Mr.  Burley's  office,  where  the  estate  was 
administered,  had  the  least  suspicion  of  the  truth,  nor  was  the 
whole  truth  known  to  any  one,  not  even  excepting  the  chief  man- 
ager, so  mixed  up  and  spread  about  was  the  property.  At  the 
office,  however,  they  knew  a  good  deal,  and  from  that  centre, 
which  the  journalists  speedily  found  out,  the  talk  began.  At 
first  it  was  nothing  but  the  plain  fact  that  another  person  had 
died  intestate,  and  apparently  without  heirs.  The  Crown  had, 
therefore,  got  something.  Everybody  supposed  that  the  Crown 
meant  the  Queen  ;  one  or  two  papers  waxed  indignant  over  this 
prerogative  of  the  Crown  ;  people  asked  each  other  how  much 
fell  into  her  Majesty's  lap  every  year  by  these  windfalls ;  the 
intelligent  outsiders  who  wrote  letters  to  the  papers  asked  scath- 
ing questions  about  tlie  Royal  conscience.  But  their  letters  did 
not  appear. 

Then  those  journalists  who  were  barristers  saw  their  oppor- 
tunity in  the  novelty  of  the  court — an  Inquest  of  Court.  No- 
body knew  anything  about  such  a  court;  they  began  to  hunt  it 
up,  they  wrote  paragraphs,  short  leaders,  long  leaders,  letters, 
communicating  their  information  ;  they  contradicted  each  other, 


THE  PRESS  UPON  WINDFALLS  57 

they  carried  on  a  wordy  war,  they  wrote  sarcastic  things  con- 
cerning each  other. 

Next,  for  the  subject  proved  of  unexpected  interest,  they  wrote 
about  the  history,  the  duties,  and  the  attributes  of  the  ancient 
office  of  coroner. 

This  opened  up  a  very  hvely  discussion.  For  some  main- 
tained, and  very  learnedly  argued,  that  the  office,  as  shown  by 
the  illustrious  Verstegan,  Leland,  Ducarel,  and  Dryasdust,  was 
established  by  King  Alfred  himself,  and  that  the  first  court  was 
held  on  the  body  of  a  Dane  found  just  outside  the  Royal  wagon, 
with  his  brains  beaten  out  at  the  back  of  his  head.  The  verdict 
was  Felo-de-se,  which  the  King,  with  an  arch  smile,  received  as 
a  very  proper  verdict,  and  what  he  expected  of  such  a  judge 
and  such  a  jury,  and  that  the  office  should,  therefore,  be  per- 
manently established.  Others — with  the  late  learned  Dr.  Free- 
man— rejected  the  legend  of  the  Dane,  and  would  have  it  that 
the  office  was  established  in  the  thirteenth  century  by  King 
Henry  III. 

The  next  step  was  a  discussion  on  the  whole  subject  of  un- 
claimed property.  Then  followed  a  boom  of  letters  on  this  sub- 
ject. Indeed,  it  interests  the  whole  world.  For  what  could  be 
more  delightful  than  to  learn  suddenly  that  one  had  inherited  a 
noble  fortune  ?  Everybody  read  these  letters ;  the  circulation 
of  the  paper  advanced  by  leaps  and  bounds.  In  train  and  in 
tram  and  in  omnibus  everybody  became  pensive,  dreaming  that 
he  had  become  heir  to  a  vast  fortune,  which  lifted  him  far — 
very  far — above  the  heads  of  his  fellows,  and  won  him  the  re- 
spect and  the  affection  of  the  whole  world.  This  was  last  year. 
No  one,  since  the  appearance  of  these  letters,  has,  so  far  as  I 
have  heard,  unexpectedly  stepped  into  a  vast  estate,  but  the 
dream  of  "coming  in"  for  an  immense  fortune  still  continues. 
It  lias  its  uses ;  it  shows  the  young  man  and  the  young  girl 
what  a  very  noble  person  he  or  she  would  become  if  he  or  she 
were  suddenly  to  "  come  in  "  for  money.  For  in  these  dreams 
about  it  they  always  picture  themselves  as  gods  making  crooked 
tilings  straight  and  compelling  all  to  virtue. 

Lucian  read  all  the  letters  and  laughe«l  over  them.  "They 
haven't  found  out,"  he  said.  "  Presently  they  will — then  from 
Greenland's  icy  mountains  and  India's  coral  strands,  from  Aus- 


58  UEVOND  THE  DKEAMS  OF  AVARICE 

tralia's  dingy  deserts  and  Wisconsin's  prairie-lands,  the  claimants 
will  begin  to  flock  in.  If  they  only  knew  !  Because,  my  dear 
Maggie,  as  I  said  before,  if  I  can't  tackle  this  pile,  no  one  else 
shall!" 

"  Don't  tliink  about  them,  Lucian,"  she  replied.  "  Let  who 
will  fight  over  the  fortune  :  let  who  will  enjoy  it." 

The  thing  made  him  restless.  He  thought  of  it  night  and 
day;  he  talked  of  it  continually.  When  he  did  not  talk  of  it, 
be  was  thinking  about  it;  he  liad  long  moods  of  silence. 

"  I  must  think  about  it,  Maggie,"  he  said.  "  Why,  I  don't 
believe  there  ever  was  a  man  in  such  a  strange  case.  I  have 
been  witliont  a  family  and  without  ancestors  for  six-and-twenty 
years.  Then  1  find  out  my  people — only  to  be  told  that  I  must 
renounce  them,  because  they  are  too  disgraceful  for  any  decent 
descendant  to  acknowledge.  And  the  next  moment  I  find  my- 
self the  sole  undisputed  heir  to  wealth  colossal — and  that  I 
must  not,  on  account  of  scruples  as  to  the  way  it  was  gotten, 
put  in  my  claim.     Isn't  that  worth  thinking  about?" 

"  It  is  worth  forgetting,  Lucian.  What  was  your  grand- 
father's profession  ?" 

"  Destruction  and  Ruin.  The  Profession  of  the  Tornado.  Let 
me  talk  about  it  a  little  with  you,  dear  girl.  Let  me  have  my 
little  grumble,  and  then  we  will  settle  down  contentedly  to 
poverty  and  pinch." 

She  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  He  had  never  before  grum- 
bled at  his  poverty,  which,  after  all,  was  an  independence,  and 
he  had  never  before  felt  any  pinch.  Had  he  not  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year  ?     It  is  a  competence. 

"  I  must  think  about  it,  Madge.  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  thought  of  it.  Presently  it  will  become — what? 
A  tender  regret?     A  thing  to  be  ashamed  of?" 

Then  the  papers  found  out  the  truth — something  like  the 
whole  truth  ;  an  approach  to  the  colossal  reality.  The  manager 
told  some  one  something  about  it;  the  clerks  talked  ;  represent- 
atives went  to  the  oflice  and  interviewed  the  manager  ;  some 
of  the  people  at  the  Treasury  got  to  know  the  facts.  Then  — 
we  know  how  to  present  things  dramatically  — there  was  an  an- 
nouncement. Not  a  little  paragraph  in  a  corner  —  but  an 
announcement  in  large  type,  after  the  leading  articles,  which  in- 


THE    PRESS    UPON    WINDFALLS  59 

formed  a  gasping,  gaping,  wondering,  admiring,  envying  world 
that  the  estate  of  the  late  John  Calvert  Burley,  which  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  Treasury  by  reason  of  intestacy  and  the  fail- 
ure of  heirs,  was  ascertained  to  be  worth — if  the  property  was 
to  be  realized — in  lands,  houses,  and  investments  of  every  kind 
— that  is,  of  every  safe  kind — over  eleven  millions  certainly ; 
perhaps  over  twelve  millions — possibly  more.  And  you  could 
hear  the  national  gasp  all  over  the  islands  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland. 

Of  course  there  was  an  article  upon  the  subject.  What  fol- 
lows is  a  part  of  this  remarkable  commentary  : 

"The  Treasury  seems  to  have  received  a  windfall  in  the  estate 
of  the  late  John  Calvert  Burley  which  surpasses  all  previous  ex- 
perience. It  beats  the  record  of  windfalls.  One  or  two  there 
have  been  in  which  the  estates  have  been  valued  at  the  hundred 
thousand.  The  estate  which  has  lately  been  escheated  to  the 
Crown  in  failure  of  heirs — who  may,  however,  turn  up — is  now, 
it  is  said,  proved  to  be  worth  nothing  less  than  the  enormous 
sum  of  eleven  or  twelve  millions  sterling. 

"  So  great  a  fortune,  representing  an  annual  income  of  at  least 
£400,000,  places  its  possessor  among  the  very  few  really  rich 
men  of  his  time.  How  many  men,  in  fact,  are  there  in  the  world 
whose  rent-roll,  with  all  deductions  made,  actually  touches  these 
figures?  How  many  men  are  there  whose  investments,  scattered 
about  in  every  kind  of  security,  actually  produce  the  income  of 
£400,000  sterling?  Are  there  five -and  -  twenty  in  the  whole 
world  ?     Probably  not  so  many. 

"  Great — very  great — has  been  the  increase  of  incomes  and 
the  magnitude  of  fortunes  during  the  last  fifty  years,  especially 
in  America;  but  there  liave  been  few  cases  on  record  of  so  large 
a  fortune  being  amassed  as  that  which  has  now  fallen  in  'to  the 
Crown.'  It  is  so  splendid  a  windfall  that  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer — unless,  which  is  not  improbable,  an  heir  presents 
himself — will  have  to  reckon  with  it  as  an  asset  of  no  inconsidoi'- 
able  importance.  It  would  pay  the  income-tax  for  a  whole  year  ; 
it  would  give  us  twenty  new  war-ships ;  it  would  pay  the  whole 
expenses,  forever,  at  British  rate  of  pay  and  maintenance,  of  an 
army  of  4000  men  ;  it  would  pay  for  education,  science,  art,  law, 
and  justice  for  a  whole  year;  it  would  be  easy  to  enumerate  the 


60  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

way  in  which  such  a  windfall  of  eleven  millions  niiirlit  he  spent. 
Probably  the  importance  of  the  amount  may  be  realized  \\lien  we 
consider  that,  suppose  others  of  corresponding  wealth  were  to 
give,  or  to  lose,  their  fortunes  to  the  country,  it  is  easy  to  per- 
ceive how  the  national  burdens  might  be  lightened. 

"The  questions  which  everybody  will  ask  are,  how  tliis  im- 
mense sum  was  accumulated  ?  and  who  was  the  fortunate  man  its 
last  possessor?  John  Calvert  Burley  was  once  as  well  known  a 
n)an  in  London  as  Crockford.  Like  him,  he  ran  a  gambling- 
house,  which  was  open  to  all  comers  ;  like  him,  he  advanced 
money  in  large  sums  to  young  spendthrifts.  If  any  player  had. 
lost  his  money,  he  had  but  to  ask,  and  there  was  more — for 
John  Burley  knew  the  private  history  and  resources  of  every 
one  who  frequented  his  place.  The  gamester  was  supplied  with 
the  means  of  continuing  his  play  so  long  as  any  means  were 
left.  lie  then  had  to  go  away.  In  addition  to  his  gaming- 
house, John  Durley  practised  the  trade  of  money-lending,  which 
he  carried  on  with  the  relentless,  pitiless  hardness  of  heart 
by  which  alone  this  trade  can  be  made  successful.  There  was 
no  necessity  for  him  to  carry  on  any  trade,  for  he  began  life 
with  such  a  fortune  as  should  have  satisfied  him.  But  to  make 
money — more  money — always  more  money,  was  with  him  an  in- 
stinct. As  a  usurer  he  enjoyed  a  mucli  better  reputation  than 
many  of  his  brother  practitioners,  for  though  he  took  great  in- 
terest, and  exacted  his  bond  to  the  letter,  he  advanced  his  nionov 
in  full  without  making  his  victim  take  half  in  bad  chanipagne  or 
villanous  cigars.  For  this  reason  he  enjoyed  the  reputation, 
such  as  it  was,  of  being  the  prince  of  money-lenders.  He  ac- 
quired at  one  time,  so  little  did  he  care  how  his  money  was 
made,  some  interest,  if  not  the  whole,  in  an  infamous  all-night 
dancing-den. 

"Theatrical  speculations,  newspaper  speculations — even  rac- 
ing speculations — were  undertaken  by  him,  with,  it  is  report?ed, 
an  unvarying  success.  Fortune  followed  hiin.  Until  a  few  vcars 
before  his  death,  when  he  retired,  he  continued  to  carry  on  the 
trade  of  money-lender.  Of  late  he  led  a  perfectly  retired  life, 
quite  alone,  friendless  and  childless,  but  not,  it  is  said,  unha[»py, 
because  he  could  contemplate  the  great  pyramid  of  gold  which 
he  had  erected,     lie  died  at  the  great  age  of  ninety-four,  illus- 


THE    PRESS    UPON    WINDFALLS  61 

trating  by  his  long  life  the  lesson  that  he  who  would  live  must 
avoid  emotions,  and  know  neither  love,  nor  hatred,  nor  jealousy, 
nor  envy,  nor  any  other  passion  whatever. 

"It  is  certain  that  there  have  been  many  usurers,  but  none 
have  been  so  abundantly  successful  as  this  man ;  and  that  to 
amass  eleven  millions  of  money  even  in  a  life  of  nearly  a  hun- 
dred years  is  a  task  which  might  well  be  deemed  impossible 
save  by  some  exceptionally  lucky  accident,  some  discovery  of 
diamonds  or  emeralds,  some  purchase  for  next  to  nothing  of  a 
silver  mine  when  silver  was  worth  digging  up. 

"  Some  explanation  of  the  mystery  is  found  in  the  history  of 
the  family.  This  man's  father  was  one  of  those  mentally  dis- 
eased unfortunate  persons  who  become  misers.  He  was  an  his- 
torical miser  —  in  any  of  the  books  which  treat  of  eccentric 
characters  and  uncommon  traits,  the  misers  are  always  por- 
trayed— among  these,  next  to  John  Elwcs  comes  John  Burley. 
He  was  born  to  a  good  fortune — perhaps  not  an  enormous,  but 
a  respectable  fortune.  He  lived  for  fifty  years ;  for  thirty  he 
was  in  possession  of  this  fortune.  He  developed  the  disease  in 
its  most  pronounced  form.  He  would  spend  nothing ;  he  pur- 
sued his  morbid  parsimony  to  the  utmost  limits;  he  would  have 
no  fire  in  cold  weather,  no  light  after  dark,  no  new  clothes,  the 
coarsest  and  simplest  food.  He  prowled  the  streets  at  night  in 
search  of  crusts  and  remnants ;  he  bought  the  odds  and  ends  of 
the  butchers. 

"This  man  was  a  perfectly  well-known  character  in  Westmin- 
ster; the  memory  of  him  still  lingers,  it  is  said,  though  there  are 
not,  probably,  any  living  men  who  remember  the  ragged  old 
miser  who  used  to  prowl  about  the  streets  in  the  twilight;  he 
died  about  the  year  1825,  of  his  self-inflicted  privations.  He 
left  his  son  the  whole  of  the  property  thus  increased  and  multi- 
plied. According  to  his  biographers,  the  fortune  amounted  to 
£400,000.  His  son  proved  to  be  as  eager  to  make  money  as  his 
father,  yet  not  contented  with  the  slow  process  of  saving  it.  He 
appears  also  to  have  inherited  much  of  his  father's  parsimony 
without  the  extreme  developments  of  the  miserly  character.  His 
eagerness  to  make  more  money  caused  him  to  embark  in  busi- 
ness of  the  kind  which  requires  the  greatest  astuteness  and  the 
coldest  temperament,     His  desire  to  save  caused  him  to  live  in 


62  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

SO  simple  a  fashion  that  he  may  fairly  be  said  to  have  saved  the 
whole  of  his  income  every  year. 

"  In  other  words,  besides  the  money  which  he  made  by  his 
profession  and  his  investments,  he  saw  for  seventy  years  his 
original  capital  multiplying  at  compound  interest.  Now  the 
sum  of  £400,000  at  compound  interest  and  at  5  per  cent,  be- 
comes £800,000  in  thirteen  years,  and  in  seventy  years  it  has 
become  more  than  twelve  millions.  Since,  therefore,  Mr.  Bur- 
ley's  estate  is  said  to  be  no  more  than  about  eleven  millions, 
it  would  seem  as  if  the  unfortunate  gentleman  must  have  had 
losses.  Or  perhaps  he  did  not  of  late  years  manage  to  make 
so  much  as  5  per  cent.  Smaller  men  than  he  have  had  to  be 
contented  with  three. 

"  Who — what — where  are  the  heirs  ?  They  must  be  some- 
where. Any  one  who  casts  an  eye  on  the  line  of  descent  as  set 
forth  in  a  certain  well-known  law-book  must  understand  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  for  a  man  to  die  without  heirs.  For  the 
property  either  descends  or  mounts  up  the  main  line.  First,  the 
man  Burley  :  had  he  children  ?  Presumably  not.  Then,  had  he 
brothers  and  sisters?  Perhaps  not.  If  he  had,  it  is  not  credible 
that  the}',  or  their  children,  would  ignore  their  connection  with 
this  incredibly  rich  man.  A  very  wealthy  man  is  the  head  of  the 
family;  he  is  like  the  man  who  enjoys  the  family  title,  and  has 
inherited  the  family  estates;  he  is  the  great  man  of  the  family. 
For  this  man,  we  must  remember,  did  not  hide  himself  away  un- 
til he  grew  very  old  ;  he  lived,  so  to  speak,  openly.  He  person- 
ally conducted  his  gaming-house  ;  his  money-lending  was  openly 
conducted  in  a  public  office  with  clerks  and  servants.  It  was  al- 
ways in  evidence. 

"  Again,  he  was  not  a  self-made  man  ;  he  began  life  so  rich 
that  he  needed  not  to  work  at  all.  He  did  work  becau.sc  he 
had  an  active  intellect,  and  he  chose  what  is  thought  to  be  dis- 
graceful work  because  he  saw  that  he  could  make  money  by  it, 
and  because  he  was  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  men.  Again, 
his  father,  the  miser,  inherited,  and  did  nut  make  his  fortune. 
How  was  it  made?  That  is  not  known;  but  we  have  certainly 
three  generations  of  easy  circumstances.  If  the  miser  had  one 
child  only,  had  be  any  brothers  and  sisters?  Was  he  an  only 
child  ?     This  is  very  improbable.     Then  where  are  the  descend- 


THE    PRESS    UPON    WINDFALLS  63 

ants  of  these  brothers  and  sisters  ?  Or  had  the  miser's  father 
any  brothers  and  sisters  ?  If  so,  where  are  they  ?  It  is  per- 
fectly certain  that  somewhere  or  other  the  main  stock  must  be 
struck  by  some  branch  which  will  thus  become  the  heirs  to  this 
vast  property. 

"  Here  we  find  a  remarkable  illustration  of  the  strange  apathy 
displayed  by  the  middle-class  Englishman  concerning  his  own 
ancestry.  He  neither  knows  nor  cares  to  inquire  into  his  origin 
and  connections.  Considering  this  family,  it  seems  almost  im- 
possible that  its  members  should  be  so  split  up  as  actually  to 
lose  in  two  generations  the  knowledge  of  their  own  relationship 
to  so  rich  a  man.  Yet  it  is  not  impossible.  Mr.  Galton  has 
somewhere  pointed  out  that  it  is  unusual  for  a  middle-class 
family  to  know  their  own  great-grandfather.  They  do  not  in- 
vestigate the  question ;  partly  they  do  not  care ;  partly  they 
fear  to  find  their  ancestors  in  the  gutter,  or  at  least  upon  the 
curb.  It  is  foolish  fear,  because  when  one  says  middle-class 
one  says  everything;  the  middle-class  is  perpetually  going  up 
or  going  down.  It  should  be  most  interesting  for  a  family  to 
know  its  own  history,  whether  that  has  been  passed  in  obscu- 
rity or  otherwise. 

"  Our  people  do  not  care  for  ancestry,  unless  they  can  claim 
descent  from  a  distinguished  House  ;  in  that  case  they  care  very 
much  for  the  connection  ;  so  that  we  see,  side  by  side  with  the 
greatest  neglect  of  ancestry,  the  greatest  respect  for  ancestors. 
This  very  neglect  it  is  which  cuts  off  so  many  branches  which 
liave  fallen  into  poverty  and  deprives  them  of  their  forefathers. 
Probably  that  branch  of  the  Burleys  who  at  this  moment  are 
the  true  and  lawful  heirs  of  all  this  fortune  are  down  in  the 
gutter,  or  on  the  curb;  behind  a  counter,  or  carrying  a  rifle; 
absolutely  unable,  for  want  of  knowledge  or  want  of  papers,  to 
connect  themselves  with  the  money-lender,  the  prince  of  monev- 
lenders — or  his  father  the  miser  of  Wcstmiiistor,  or  his  un- 
known father  who,  perhaps,  first  made  the  money  by  careful  at- 
tention to  business  among  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  Totliill 
Street  and  Petty  France." 

"  There's  a  leading  article  for  you  !"  Lucian  read  it  right 
through  to  Margaret. 

"  It   makes   one   burn   with    shame,"  she    replied,  "  only  to 


64  REYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

think  of  putting  in  a  claim.  The  miser — the  money-lender — 
the  money-lender — the  miser — the  contempt  of  it  all !" 

"  But  they  have  found  out — they  have  found  out  at  last.  I 
knew  they  would,  and  now  for  the  claimants.  They  will  come 
forward  in  shoals." 

First,  however,  everybody  read  this  leading  article,  or  some 
of  the  others  on  the  same  subject,  which,  as  you  have  seen,  was 
of  a  kind  which  goes  straight  to  everybody's  heart.  An  im- 
mense fortune,  with  nobody  to  claim  it!  Heard  one  ever  the 
like?  Why,  it  might  be — as  the  coroner  wisely  said — you,  or 
me,  or  both  of  us —  Quick  !  Where  is  the  family  genealogy  ? 
Who  knows  what  our  grandfather  was  ? — mother's  father  ?  Per- 
haps he  was  a  Burley  !  Does  nobody  know  ?  Cousin  Maria 
knows;  she  knows  everything,  good  old  girl — capital  thing  to 
have  a  Cousin  Maria.  Who  was  he,  then?  Not  a  Burley  at 
all ;  he  was  a  Smithers,  and  a  journeyman  shoe —  Oh  !  Cousin 
Maria  knows  nothing,  stupid  old  thing  !  Has  she  no  pride  of 
family,  then  ?     And  what  about  the  family  coat  of  arms  ? 

There  was  a  great  searching  into  family  records  and  origins, 
and  such  secret  humblings  of  family  pride  as  the  world  has 
never  seen.  But,  then,  the  world  did  not  see  these  things  be- 
cause they  were  kept  in  the  family  ;  the  girls  hid  away  the 
papers  or  destroyed  them,  and  went  to  church  next  Sunday  with 
their  chins  stuck  out  more  than  ever,  and  the  family  arms  dis- 
played upon  the  covers  of  their  prayer-books. 

Other  papers,  of  course,  took  up  the  subject  from  other 
points  of  view  ;  they  hunted  up  stories  of  great  fortunes,  un- 
looked-for inheritances,  men  suddenly  raised  from  the  deepest 
poverty  to  great  wealth ;  a  Book  of  Successions  was  drawn 
up  in  twenty-four  hours  by  an  eminent  hand  for  an  enterprising 
publisher,  who  did  well  witii  it;  people  reminded  each  other 
also,  by  letters  to  the  papers,  that  there  were  other  estates  un- 
claimed. Everybody  bought  the  Gazette,  which  contains  the 
official  list.  It  was  not  the  Burleys  only  that  were  in  demand, 
but  all  kinds  of  names.  Surely  in  such  a  long  list  it  would  not 
be  hard  to  make  out  one's  right  to  something.  Alas  !  the  lists 
are  long,  but  after  all  they  only  amount  to  a  few  hundreds, 
whereas  the  number  of  families  in  Great  Britain,  Ireland,  and 
the  Colonies  amounts  to — I  know  not  how  many  ;  but  as  there 


"  '  BEnOLP    HIM  !     HE    STANDS    BKKOUK    YOU 


THE    PRESS    UPON    WINDFALLS  65 

are  five  millions  of  families,  of  whom  a  great  many  come  from 
the  same  stock,  perhaps  we  may  reckon  as  separate  families 
those  families  so  far  and  so  long  separated  that  they  have  for- 
gotten their  relationship  and  changed  the  spelling  of  the  name. 
Very  possibly  there  are  a  million  of  separate  families.  The  list 
is  therefore  a  lottery — an  immoral,  speculative,  gambling,  un- 
settling, corrupting  State  lottery,  in  which  there  are  a  million  of 
tickets  (one  for  every  family)  and  about  two  hundred  prizes. 

The  Spectator  had  an  article  v/hich  very  nearly  guessed  the 
truth.  The  writer  assumed  for  his  purposes  that  family  pride 
was  the  leading  characteristic  and  the  strongest  passion  of  the 
modern  Englishman. 

"  Here,"  the  article  said,  "  we  see  one  of  the  greatest  estates 
ever  known ;  an  estate  comparable  with  that  of  the  famous 
widow  of  the  Peloponnese,  or  with  that  of  the  landlord  of  New 
York,  or  with  that  of  any  American  railway  king,  and  it  fairly 
goes  a-begging.  The  heirs  will  not  come  forward.  Wliy  ? 
Most  probably  because  they  are  asliamed — they  dare  not  face 
the  shame  of  proclaiming  themselves.  The  heirs  of  the  money- 
lender and  the  miser — they  will  not  touch  money  so  made.  At 
first  one  respects  this  dignity,  this  self-respect.  Then  one  asks 
whether  a  truer  courage  would  not  be  shown  in  accepting  the 
whole — the  awful — responsibility  of  so  much  wealth  as  a  trust, 
to  be  devoted  to  some  form  of  good  works  which  shall  not  pau- 
perize or  demoralize.  It  is  easy  to  think  of  many  ways  in 
which  such  a  trust  would  be  usefully  employed,  and  no  doubt 
a  whole  life  might  be  nobly  devoted  to  the  administration  of 
such  a  trust.  But  perhaps  the  courage  is  wanting — tlie  courage 
of  taking  the  first  step — that  of  advancing  to  the  front  before 
all  the  world  and  saying  aloud :  '  The  lieir  of  the  money-lender 
and  the  miser?     Beliold  him  !     lie  stands  before  you  !'  " 

"  There  !"  cried  Lucian,  reading  this  article  aloud.  "  You 
see,  Madge,  the  Spectator  has  got  the  truth — not  quite  by  the 
right  way  ;  but  still — the  pride  of  family  will  not,  however,  be 
strong  enough  to  deter  more  than  one  possible  claimant  from 
stepping  forward.  How  devoutly  does  all  the  world  wish  that 
they  could  so  step  forward  and  declare  themselves  !  Claimants? 
There  will  be  claimants  by  the  thousand  1" 


CHAPTER  X 
ARE    WE    COUSINS  ? 

Five  fair  dauijliters,  running  up,  like  Pandean  pipes,  from 
fourteen  to  twenty,  named  respectively,  though  their  names 
matter  little  to  us,  Lucy,  Cathie,  Polly,  Nelly,  and  Dot — or,  in 
full,  Lucinda,  Catherine,  Marian,  Eleanor,  and  Dorothy  —  com- 
posed the  greater  part  of  Sir  John  Burleigh's  family.  Lady 
Burleigh  was,  however,  in  herself  a  considerable  part,  and  the 
Reverend  Herbert  Burleigh,  B.A,,  formerly  of  liadley  and 
Trinity,  and  now  curate,  or  assistant  priest,  of  St.  Lazarus, 
Bethnal  Green,  completed  the  family. 

Sir  John,  ex-Premier  of  New  Zealand,  and  K.C.M.G.,  arrived 
in  this  country  in  the  month  of  June.  It  was  fifty  years  since 
lie  had  exchanged,  being  then  of  tender  years,  and  therefore  not 
consulted  in  the  matter.  Great  Britain  for  New  Zealand.  His 
wife  and  daughters  had  never  before  visited  the  mother-coun- 
try. Everything  was  new  to  them  :  it  was  their  first  journey  ; 
it  was  their  first  evening  in  England  ;  they  were  all  excited  and 
liappy  ;  and  they  had  their  brother  with  them,  the  first  time 
for  ten  long  years. 

On  the  hearth-rug  stood  the  father  of  this  family,  a  gentle- 
man of  fifty-six  or  so,  bearing  his  years  cheerfully,  his  arch  of 
black  hair  tinged  with  gray,  his  figure  somewhat  portly,  but 
erect  and  strong,  his  face  capable,  his  smile  kindly,  his  appear- 
ance prosperous ;  his  whole  manner  contented.  He  surveyed 
the  group  before  him  with  the  satisfaction  of  one  who  is  proud 
of  his  daughters,  able  to  leave  them  something  substantial,  and 
willing  to  postpone  that  legacy  as  long  as  possible.  Oh  !  the 
unspeakable  cheerfulness  of  the  man  who  has  "  got  on,"  in  ways 
esteemed  honorable,  beyond  his  own  expectations,  and  keeps 
his  teeth  and  his  taste  for  claret,  and  "  enjoys  "  nothing  nasty 


ARE    WE    COUSINS?  67 

in  the  way  of  rheumatics  or  other  blessings,  and  has  daughters 
pretty  and  loving  and  sweet-tempered  !  Beside  him,  in  an  arm- 
chair, sat  his  wife,  comfortable  and  satisfied,  well  dressed  and 
happy. 

Nothing  could  be  prettier  than  the  group  before  him.  There 
were  the  five  girls,  all  animated,  rosy,  graceful,  formed  in  a 
hollow  square  or  linked  in  a  loving  circle  round  their  brother. 
They  took  his  hands  and  held  them  tight;  they  laid  their  own 
hands  on  his  shoulders ;  they  kissed  him  in  turns ;  they  purred 
over  him  ;  they  discussed  him  openly. 

"  Oh  !"  cried  one,  "  I  like  him  so  much  better  in  liis  clerical 
dress.     It  is  much  more  becoming  than  the  football  blazer." 

"  So  much  more  intellectual,"  said  another ;  "  but  is  it  quite 
so  becoming  as  the  undergraduate  cap  and  gown  ?  Perhaps, 
however — "  she  laid  her  head  on  one  side.  "  The  collar  is 
sweet." 

The  Reverend  Herbert  was  a  youth  of  striking  appearance, 
tall  and  strongly  built.  His  smooth-shaven  face,  with  the  high 
and  narrow  forehead  under  an  arch  of  black  hair,  like  his 
father's,  was  already,  though  he  was  still  a  deacon,  distinctly 
ecclesiastical.  Even  in  ordinary  tweeds,  even  in  hunting  scar- 
let, he  would  be  recognized  as  a  cleric.  He  was  very  proper- 
ly attired,  as  becomes  an  ecclesiastic  who  respects  himself. 
Whether  in  the  slums  or  at  court,  the  modern  abbe  is  always 
dressed  for  the  part.  In  the  Church  there  is  no  Piccadilly. 
What  struck  one  most  in  Herbert  Burleigh  were  his  keen, 
piercing  black  eyes  set  deep  under  square  eyebrows.  They 
were  not  only  bright  eyes,  but  they  were  restless ;  they  made 
one  think  of  the  zealot ;  they  were  the  eyes  of  the  Dominican 
eager  for  the  true  doctrine ;  they  were  the  eyes  of  the  martyr. 

He  suffered  his  sisters'  caresses  with  a  patience  which  one 
could  see  would  be  but  short-lived.  They  had  not  seen  him 
for  ten  years ;  his  youngest  sister,  Dot,  could  hardly  recollect 
him. 

"He  looks  pale,"  said  another;  it  was  quite  true — the  young 
man  had  the  pallor  of  an  ascetic.  Perhaps  he  wore  a  hair 
shirt ;  perhaps  he  lived  on  lentils.  "  It  is  that  nasty  parish 
work." 

"  Nelly,"  he  interrupted,  "  it  is  the  work  of  the  Church." 


68  BKYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  Yes,  I  know."  The  girls  had  tlic  colonial  freedom  from 
respect  to  authority.  "  We  shall  have  to  take  him  away  with 
us  when  we  go  home.  New  Zealand  sunshine  is  what  he  wants. 
At  present  all  he  gets  is  New  Zealand  mutton,  poor  dear !" 

The  young  clergyman  smiled  faintly.  "  As  for  nTy  dress," 
lie  said,  "  we  must  remind  ourselves  daily  and  hourly  of  our 
sacred  profession.  And  in  this  outward  and  visible  manner 
we  must  remind  the  world.  A  clergyman  going  about  the 
world  should  be  a  standing  and  silent  sermon,  or  catechism  at 
least.  What  is  he  ?  AVhy  is  he  ?  AVhat  power  has  he  ?  How 
shall  we  use  him  ?" 

"  You  make  us  afraid,  Herbert,"  said  one.  "  Suppose  you 
change  your  coat  for  one  of  father's  jackets.  Then  we  could 
all  sit  down  and  laugh  and  tell  stories  just  as  we  used  to  do." 
The  clergyman  smiled  sadly.  "  You  remember,  when  we  used 
to  make  up  and  pretend  ?     Do  you  never  laugh  now  ?" 

"  ^Ve  have  our  idle  moments.  They  are  rare.  But — per- 
haps— sometimes — "  he  sighed. 

"  Well,"  said  the  sister  who  preferred  the  undergraduate, 
"  you  can't  be  always  taking  services  or  tramping  around  the 
slums.  Then  you  will  come  to  us  and  sit  in  your  shirt-sleeves, 
if  you  like." 

"  My  work,"  said  the  young  man,  solemnly,  "  lies  among  the 
slums,  at  present.  But  all  the  world  is  a  slum — rightly  con- 
sidered." 

"  If  tliat  is  the  case,"  the  same  girl  answered,  "  we  are  all  in 
the  same  boat,  and  we  should  try  to  make  the  best  of  the 
slum." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  the  eldest.  "  And  we  haven't  asked  him  about 
the  most  important  thing  of  all.  Herbert,  what  about  the 
long-lost  family  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  what  about  the  family  ?"  they  all  cried  in  con- 
cert. 

At  this  question — which  was  by  no  means  new— Sir  John 
winced  and  changed  color  slightly.  No  one  noticed  the  emo- 
tion. He  quickly  recovered,  and,  glancing  at  liis  wife,  laughed 
aloud. 

"What  about  the  family,  Herbert?"  he  repeated.  "You 
were  going  to  restore  us  to  our  family,  remember." 


ARE    WE    COUSINS?  69 

"  I  remember,  but — " 

*'  It  was  resolved  unanimously,  Herbert,"  said  Lucy,  the  el- 
dest, *'  that  you  should  undertake  the  search." 

"  Yes.  But  I  have  no  clew.  Without  something  to  con- 
nect us — " 

"  You  have  all  the  facts,"  said  his  father.  "  Fifty-two  years 
ago,  when  I  was  four  years  of  age,  we  landed  in  New  Zealand, 
my  father,  my  mother,  and  I.  Where  we  came  from,  who  our 
people  were,  I  have  never  learned.  And  there  is  not  a  scrap  of 
paper,  not  a  letter,  or  a  book,  not  even  a  baptism  or  a  marriage 
certificate,  in  my  possession  that  will  tell  you  anything  more. 
Nothing  to  show  you  the  maiden  name  of  my  mother,  or  the 
place  where  she  was  married." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  the  son.  "  And  I  have  long  since  given  up 
thinking  about  it." 

"  Grandfatlier  must  have  been  a  gentleman,  to  begin  with," 
said  the  eldest  girl. 

"  Of  course  !" — from  all  the  other  girls. 

"A  gentleman,"  said  Sir  John,  "to  end  with,  at  any  rate." 

*'  And  he  never  spoke  of  his  own  people.  The  inference  is 
that  he  had  quarrelled  with  them." 

•'That  might  be  so,"  said  Sir  John. 

"  It  must  be  so,"  said  the  girl.  "  Oh  !  we've  talked  it  over 
and  over,  till  we  seem  to  know  exactly  what  happened." 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,"  Herbert  explained.  "  But  I  have  not 
been  able  to  do  anything.  You  see,  it  is  pleasant  when  fellows 
talk  about  their  own  people  to  remember  that  one's  father  is  a 
public  man  of  position  and  respect.  Nobody  in  such  a  case  as 
ours  ever  asks  what  the  great-grandfather  was.  And  when 
you  talk  about  New  Zealand,  nobody  considers  that  all  the  peo- 
ple there  have  gone  out  from  the  country  within  the  last  sixty 
years.  Still,  one  would  like  to  have  cousins  at  home.  There 
must  be  cousins  somewhere.  Why,  there  must  be  two  branches 
of  cousins." 

•*  We  thought  you  were  looking  for  them  all  the  time." 

"  Not  all  the  time.  You  see,  a  man  cannot  give  out  to  the 
whole  world  that  he  is  in  search  of  cousins." 

*'  That  you  were,  in  fact,"  said  another  sister,  "  the  Rever- 
end Japhet  in  search  of  a  grand-uncle." 


70  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  A  graiul-nnclc."  The  eldest  girl  again  took  up  the  theme, 
standing  u[)right,  and  einpliasizing  lier  points  with  her  fore- 
finger, "  In  search  of  a  grand-uncle,  lie  can't  be  the  Lord 
Burleigh,  or  the  Earl  of  Burleigh,  for  their  people  are  Cecils. 
Could  he,  however,  have  been  the  Lord  John  Cecil,  son  of  the 
Marquis  of  Exeter,  who  changed  his  name  to  Burleigh  when  he 
married  the  poor,  but  illustriously  descended,  family  governess? 
There's  a  chance,  Herbert !  AVe  must  prosecute  the  inquiry, 
now  we  are  come  home,  seriously  and  all  together.  The  search 
for  the  long-lost  family.  When  you  are  not  at  work,  Herbert, 
you  shall  help  us.  I  mean  to  begin  at  the  beginning — with  the 
dukes  and  marquises.  We  will  next  go  on  to  the  bishops. 
My  great-grandfather  the  Archbishop  of  York  would  sound 
nicely.  My  grandfather  left  home — the  archiepiscopal  palace — 
in  consequence  of  his  father's  anger  at  hearing  that  he  had 
been  to  a  theatre.  If  not  the  bishops,  then  the  earls  and  the 
viscounts  and  the  barons,  the  baronets  and  the  City  knights. 
After  them  the  professionals.  We  shall  say,  perhaps,  with 
n)ock  humility  :  '  We  have  always  been  middle-class  people. 
My  great-grandfather.  Sir  John  Burleigh,  was  Attorney-General 
in  the  time  of  George  II.' " 

"  Very  good,"  said  Sir  John.  "  But  sn]){)Ose  you  liave  to  go 
lower  down  ?" 

"  In  that  case,  it  will  be  in  order  to  satisfy  our  own,  not  the 
public,  curiosity,  and  we  shall  keep  the  melancholy  secret  to 
ourselves  and  be  quite  satisfied  " — the  girl  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  father's  shoulder — "  with  the  dear  old  dad  that  we  arc  so 
proud  of." 

"  Of  course,"  said  one  of  her  sisters,  "  if  we  find  the  cousin, 
grandson  of  the  grand-uncle,  on  the  curb,  so  to  speak,  arrang- 
ing his  cheeses  and  his  bacon  in  the  shop-window,  we  shall  not 
reveal  the  relationship,  nor  shall  we  fall  into  his  arms  and 
marry  his  assistant  in  the  white  apron.  And  if  he  happens  to 
be  in  the  gutter — which  may  be  the  case,  for  families  in  this 
country,  they  say,  do  climb  up  and  fall  down  in  the  most  sur- 
prising manner — we  shall  pass  him  by  like  a  family  of  Levites, 
and  we  shall  say  nothing  at  all  about  blood  being  thicker  than 
water — no,  not  even  if  they  are  cottage  folk  in  smocks  and 
scrupulously  clean  and  doggedly  virtuous." 


ARE    WE    COUSINS?  71 

"  You  are  a  most  unprincipled  set,"  said  tlieir  father,  laugli- 
'ng,  "  and  I   sincerely   hope   that   you    never   will    find   your 
^ople." 

■'  A  change  of  name.  That  is  what  seems  to  me,"  said  the 
eldest  girl,  "  the  most  likely.  But  how  to  find  the  real  name  ? 
Given  the  facts.  Somewhere  about  the  year  1841  there  arrived 
in  New  Zealand  an  immigrant  with  a  wife  and  one  child.  His 
name  was  So-and-so.  He  is  believed  to  have  changed  his 
name.  What  family  in  England  had  a  son  who,  in  1841  or 
thereabouts,  had  a  row  with  his  own  people  and  took  another 
name  and  went  out  to  New  Zealand  ?  Did  he  do  this  openly 
or  secretly  ?  Did  his  wife's  people  know  what  he  was  doing 
and  where  he  was  going?  Did  he  break  altogether  with  his 
own  people  ?  Then,  can  we  find  out  a  family  whose  son  disap- 
peared about  that  time,  taking  with  him  a  young  wife — some- 
body's daughter — and  an  infant  son  ?" 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  father,  "  it  is  a  wild-goose  chase.  For 
there  is  nothing  to  connect  him  with  anybody.  And  as  for 
disappearing  sons,  why — you've  all  known  them  for  yourselves 
— among  my  shepherds — men  who  never  communicated  to  their 
own  people  anything  at  all  about  themselves.  Better  enjoy 
London,  children,  and  leave  unknown  cousins  alone." 

"What  I  think,"  said  another  daughter,  who  had  imagina- 
tion, and  will,  perhaps,  become  a  novelist,  "  is  that  our  grand- 
father was  another  Adam,  created  especially  for  New  Zealand, 
and  miraculously  provided  with  an  Eve,  also  specially  created. 
That  explains  everything." 

And  so  they  all  laughed  and  changed  the  subject,  going  back 
to  the  worship  of  the  brother,  which  shows  what  an  uncivilized, 
colonial,  half-finished,  unadvanced  set  of  sisters  they  were.  For 
the  girl  who  worships  the  brother  will  presently  worship  the 
lover,  and  even,  such  is  the  depth  of  this  girl's  degradation, 
the  husband. 

'•  Later  in  the  evening  the  young  man  returned  again  to  the  sub- 
ject. "You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  my  work  takes  all  my  time. 
I  cannot  go  about  with  you  as  I  should  wish.  But  I  will  do 
what  I  can.  j\Ieantime,  is  there  not  another  solution  possible 
about  these  cousins  of  ours  ^  Perhaps  our  grandfather  pre- 
served silence  about  his  people  because  they  were  quite  humble. 


73  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Our  cousins  ni;iy  be  low  down — very  low  down,  I  could  wish 
it  were  so.  I  wish  I  could  find  them  in  my  own  parish.  It 
might  help  me  in  my  work  if  I  could  say  to  them  :  '  I  am  a 
son  of  the  gutter,  like  you.  I  am  your  cousin — one  of  your- 
selves— my  great-grandfather,  a  laboring  man,  perhaps  even  a 
criminal.'  " 

«'0h!"  cried  Sir  John,  "you'd  like  that,  would  you?"  He 
did  not  laugh,  but  spoke  fiercely. 

"  Dear  Herbert !"  cried  his  sisters.  "  Let  us,  above  all 
things,  believe,  until  the  contrary  is  proved,  that  we  come  from 
an  honorable  stock  at  least." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  my  work,"  said  the  assistant  priest. 
"  For  the  sake  of  my  work,  I  would  willingly  be  the  grandson 
of—" 

"Thank  you,  Herbert,"  his  father  interrupted.  "And  now 
we  will  have  no  more  said  about  it.  Our  first  evening  in  Eng- 
land must  not  be  disturbed  by  foolish  speculation  into  remote 
possibilities  which  would  only  humiliate  us." 

But  the  harmony  of  the  evening  was  broken.  A  discordant 
note  had  been  struck.  Presently  the  son  went  away,  promis- 
ing to  return  for  breakfast  at  half-past  nine,  after  early  service. 
Then  the  mother  and  the  girls  talked  about  him,  and  about  the 
Doliilitv  of  his  character  and  his  deep  sense  of  religion,  and 
thought  humbly  of  themselves  as  walking — and  actually  feel- 
ing quite  comfortable  —  on  levels  so  far  below  his.  But  Sir 
John  took  no  part  in  this  discussion.  He  did  not  even  listen. 
Something  had  put  him  out. 

The  next  morning  was  that  on  which  a  certain  leading  article, 
which  you  have  seen,  came  out  in  a  certain  morning  paper. 

Sir  John  appeared,  clad  in  his  usual  cheerfulness  —  his  face 
serene,  his  brow  unclouded.  He  sat  down  to  breakfast  with  a 
colonial  appetite  ;  he  worked  his  way  through  the  vivers  with 
his  accustomed  energy.  When  he  had  laid  the  foundation  for 
a  day  of  activity,  he  took  a  fresh  cup  of  tea,  and  half  turning 
his  chair,  so  as  to  get  the  light,  he  opened  the  morning  paper 
and  began  to  read. 

He  read  on  with  the  ordinary  show  of  interest  until  he 
lighted  on  the  leading  article,  which  was  the  third.  Then  he 
started  ;  he  changed  color ;  he  laid  down  the  paper  and  looked 


ARE    AVE     COUSINS  5  73 

about  liim,  seeing  nothing.  At  this  point  the  girls  became 
aware  that  something  bad  happened,  and  left  off  chattering. 
He  then  began  to  read  the  article  again,  and  read  it  right 
through  a  second  time. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?"  asked  his  wife,  who  perceived  those 
signs  of  interest. 

"An  article  in  the  paper,"  he  said,  "concerning  a  certain 
person  of  my  name — our  name — one  Burley,  name  spelled  dif- 
ferently— who  has  died  enormously  ricli  without  any  heirs.  So 
rich  that  it  seems  incredible.  They  say  that  his  estate  is 
worth  about  twelve  millions  sterling — twelve  millions !  With- 
out heirs,  so  that  the  estate  will  be  seized  by  the  Crown. 
Twelve  millions!  Is  it  possible?  And  we  call  that  man  rich 
who  can  save  a  poor  hundred  thousand  or  so." 

"  And  of  our  name?"  said  his  son.  "  Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 
What  was  his  profession  ?" 

"  Among  other  things  " — Sir  John  hesitated — "  he  was — he 
was — a  money-lender." 

"Then,"  said  his  son,  with  decision,  "I  suppose  he  is  no  re- 
lation of  ours  ?" 

"  Yet,  yesterday,  Herbert,  you  expressed  yourself  anxious  to 
be  connected  with  the  criminal  classes,"  said  his  father. 

"  Well,  I  said  so  for  the  sake  of  my  work.  But  to  be  the 
nephew  of  a  rich  money-lender  would  not  help  me  at  all,  unless 
I  could  pour  the  whole  of  his  misgotten  gains  into  the  lap  of 
the  Church.  Then,  indeed,  I  would  confess  and  acknowledge 
the  relationship." 

"Twelve  millions,"  said  one  of  the  girls.  "It  seems  almost 
enough  to  gild  any  trade.  Why  should  not  a  man  lend 
money  ?" 

"  It  is  the  most  ignoble  of  all  callings.  What  was  his  name, 
father — Burley  ?     Is  it  spelled  our  way  ?" 

Sir  John  handed  his  son  the  paper  and  buried  his  nose  in 
his  teacup.  Because,  you  sec,  his  son's  full  name  was  Herbert 
John  Calvert  Burleigh,  which  contained  the  name  of  the  de- 
ceased Dives. 

The  young  clergyman  observed  this  fact,  and  read  the  article 
with  flushed  cheeks. 

"  Do  you  know,  sir — "  he  began. 

4 


74  BEYOND    THE    DKEAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  the  ex-Premier,  gravely,  "  we  Lad  a  little 
playful  talk,  which  very  nearly  became  a  serious  talk,  over  this 
matter  last  night.  I  confess  to  grave  misgivings  about  any  at- 
tempt at  investigating  the  family  history.  That  my  father  told 
me  nothing  concerning  the  social  position  of  his  family  is  a 
conclusive  proof,  it  seems  to  me,  that  he  had  reasons  for  wish- 
ing a  complete  severance  with  his  own  people.  For  this  reason 
I  have  never  attempted  any  inquiry  into  the  matter ;  nor  do  I 
intend  to  attempt  any.  If  you,  however,  choose  to  undertake 
such  an  inquiry,  you  arc,  of  course,  free  to  do  so.  Here,  then, 
is  a  man  who  appears,  according  to  his  Christian  names,  which 
are  the  same  as  yours  and  mine,  to  be  some  kind  of  connection. 
llis  name  is  ours,  with  a  little  difference  in  the  spelling." 

"Give  me  the  paper,  Bertie"  —  from  the  live  daughters, 
simultaneously. 

"  I  think  that,  most  likely,  we  are  cousins  of  a  sort  to  this 
man.  That  fact,  however,  if  we  could  prove  it,  would  not  nec- 
essarily make  us  his  heirs.  Very  well,  then.  He  was  not,  ap- 
parently, a  man  whose  kinship  could  raise  us  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  Are  we  prepared,  before  we  embark  upon  a  serious 
inquiry,  to  be  labelled  as  the  cousins  of  a  man  infamous  for  the 
way  in  which  he  made  his  fortune,  or  are  we  prepared  to  be 
advertised  as  the  cousins,  and  perhaps  unsuccessful  claimants, 
of  sucli  a  man?  My  father's  name  was  Charles  Calvert  Bur- 
leigh— perhaps  he  altered  the  surname  from  Burley — 1-e-y.  I 
do  not  know.  My  own  name  is  John  Calvert  Burleigh.  Your 
name  is  Herbert  John  Calvert  Burleigh.  The  Christian  names 
of  the  deceased  were  John  Calvert." 

"  Such  names  cannot  be  mere  coincidence,"  said  his  son. 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  think  certainly  not.  We  must  be  of  the 
same  family.  Are  we  prepared  to  dig  up  old  scandals — old  quar- 
I'cls — and  to  publish  them  for  all  the  world  to  laugh  at  them  ?" 

"Xo,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Burleigh,  decidedly,  "  unless  the 
money  is  clearly  yours.  In  that  case,  perhaps — an  old  scandal 
is  not  generally  a  very  important  thing." 

"  "Why  should  there  be  scandals  ?"  asked  the  son.  *'  I  con- 
fess the  connection  with  a  money-lender  and  a  keeper  of  dan- 
cing-saloons is  not  an  ideal ;  but  if  we  could  pour  this  money 
into  the  coffers  of  the  Church — ^" 


ARE    WE    COUSINS  ?  75 

"  You  forget,  my  son,  that  it  would  first  have  to  be  poured 
into  my  coffers." 

"  Well ;  but  suppose  the  widest  publicity.  There  cannot 
possibly  be  anything  in  our  branch  that  we  should  be  ashamed 
to  parade  before  all  the  world." 

"Nothing?  Humph!  Well,  I  have  known  a  good  many 
families,  and  I  do  not  remember  one  in  which  there  were  not 
some  black  sheep — some  scandals  best  forgotten.  I  remember 
sitting  one  night  over  the  fire  with  an  old  fellow  who  gave  me 
the  history  of  his  family.  It  was  a  good  family,  old,  with  hon- 
orable men  in  it,  and  fools  in  it,  and  criminals  in  it.  My  dear 
Herbert,  the  whole  of  the  Decalogue  had  been  broken  by  vari- 
ous members  of  that  family.  Very  well,  then.  If  by  opening 
up  the  old  stories  you  could  establish  a  claim  upon  this  vast 
property — I  do  not  say — though  I  doubt — it  is  more  than  doubt 
— I  am  sure — "  Here  Sir  John  grew  obscure  and  hesitated. 
"  I  mean,  Herbert,  that  I  think  we  had  better  let  things  alone." 

Herbert  made  no  answer.     The  girls  were  reading  the  article. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Burleigh,  "  if  it  is  a  question  of  ob- 
scure origin  only,  I  think  that  would  not  matter." 

"  No  ;  not  much.  We  are  too  strongly  placed  to  dread  any 
discovery  about  obscure  grandfathers.  But  there  may  be  scan- 
dals. Why  did  my  father  keep  silence  on  the  subject  of  his 
own  people  ?" 

"  Father,"  said  the  girls,  "  it  is  such  an  enormous  fortune. 
Fancy !  If  we  were  really  the  heirs  to  all  that !  If  you  were 
the  heir — the  only  heir.  Why,  they  would  have  to  make  you 
a  duke.  It  is  enough  to  develop  the  whole  possibilities  of  the 
colony." 

"  Here  is  another  thing,  however,"  said  the  father,  persist- 
ent. "  Suppose  you  found  that  a  certain  Charles  Calvert  Burley 
and  his  descendants  were  the  heirs,  how  would  you  connect 
tliis  man  witli  your  grandfather  ?  Without  documentary  proof 
it  would  be  impossible.  To  begin  with,  how  to  prove  the 
change  of  name  ?" 

"  There  are  no  proofs,  as  yet,"  said  the  son.  "  But  proofs 
may  be  found.  The  man  was  married.  There  must  be  the  reg- 
ister somewhere.  There  must  be  relations  —  cousins  —  some- 
where in  the  wurld ;  there  must  be  some  one  living  who  can  re- 


76  BEYOND  THE  DUEAMS  OF  AVAUICE 

member  that  youiiir  mjirriod  pair.  For  my  own  part,  I  care  very 
little  about  old  scandals.  Let  us  take  steps,  at  least,  to  prove 
the  relationship  if  we  can.  I  hope  I  am  not  greedy ;  if  I  had 
all  those  millions  in  my  own  hands  I  should  not  wish  to  live 
differently.     But  the  Church — the  Church  wants  so  much." 

"  The  colony  wants  it  a  great  deal  more  than  the  Church," 
said  one  of  the  New  Zealand  wardens. 

"  It  is  a  very  big  estate,"  said  Sir  John — "  a  bigger  property 
than  ever  yet  started  a  noble  family.  Take  the  other  side — at 
present  we  do  very  well ;  we  are  rich  after  our  humble  way. 
You,  Bertie,  are  the  son  of  a  man  who  has,  to  a  certain  extent, 
distinguished  himself ;  you  are  the  grandson  of  a  man  who — " 
here  he  stopped  for  a  moment  —  "who,  however  he  began, 
ended  in  a  good  position.  If  we  go  into  court  with  our  claim 
we  may,  I  repeat,  have  to  publish  for  the  whole  world  all  kinds 
of  things  best  forgotten — family  scandals,  perhaps — even — even 
— disgraces — who  knows?  Children,  it  is  for  you  to  decide. 
Shall  we  go  on  as  we  are,  or  will  you  rake  up  the  past  in  the 
hope  of  succeeding  to  all  this  money  ?" 

The  girls  all  looked  at  their  brother. 

"  I  think,"  said  Ilerbert,  "  that  we  should  prove  the  connec- 
tion, if  possible,  for  our  own  satisfaction,  and  then  decide  what 
to  do  next." 

"You  are  not  afraid  of — these  family  scandals,  then?" 

"  One  may  discover  them.  One  need  not  disclose  them  to 
the  world." 

His  father  regarded  him  gravely.  "As  you  will,"  he  said. 
"  I  advise  you  rather  to  let  sleeping  things  remain  undisturbed. 
But,  as  you  will." 

"I  liave  no  fear,"  replied  the  son.  "Let  usi,  at  least,  liave 
the  choice,  if  it  prove  to  be  our  lawful  choice." 

"Japhet!"  cried  the  girls,  with  one  consent.  "  Japhet  is,  at 
last,  in  search  of  a  grand-uncle  with  millions  and  millions  and 
millions.     Oh,  Japhet  !" 

Later  on,  the  father  and  son  were  alone. 

"You  meant  something,  sir,  when  you  hinted  at  family  scan- 
dals and  disgraces.     Can  you  tell  me  anything  definite?" 

"  No,  Herbert.  If  there  are  scandals — I  don't  say  so — you 
may  liiid  them  out  for  yourself.     My  father,  I  repeat,  never  spoke 


ARE    WE    COUSINS?  77 

about  liis  people,  nor  did  I  ever  ask  him.  Ilis  name  you  know 
— Charles  Calvert  Burleigh.  lie  died  twenty  years  ago,  when 
you  were  a  child  of  five  or  six — you  remember  him,  I  dare  say. 
He  was  then  seventy-three  years  of  age.  He  was  born  in  the 
year  1800,  and  he  went  to  New  Zealand  in  the  year  1841. 
There  are  no  books,  no  papers ;  nothing  whatever  to  help  you 
but  these  facts,  and  such  other  facts  as  you  may  discover  for 
yourself.  If  they  are  disagreeable  facts,  you  need  not,  of 
course,  tell  your  mother  or  the  girls." 


CHAPTER  XI 
YOUTH    IN    A    GARRET 

Youth,  avIio  formerly  lived  in  a  garret  with  lean-to  walls  and 
a  low  ceiling,  where  the  only  furniture  was  a  truckle-bed  and  a 
crazy  table,  a  three-legged  chair,  and  a  toasting-fork  for  the 
toothsome  bloater,  now  takes  on  lease  an  iesthctically  decorated 
flat  at  the  top  wliere  the  garret  used  to  be.  Youth  now  fur- 
nishes liis  flat  according  to  the  latest  lights.  Youth,  who  for- 
merly wasted  his  treasure  of  the  golden  years  in  vain  regrets, 
in  miserable  poverty,  and  in  beating  the  air  with  angry  hands, 
an  operation  which  never  produced  anything  but  a  harvest  of 
wind,  now  occupies  himself  profitably,  and  rakes  in  an  income 
by  a  thousand  different  ways ;  and  he  spends  that  income  on 
those  objects  which  are  naturally  dear  to  his  time  of  life.  Youth 
has  a  ver}^  very  much  better  time  than  ever  he  had  before,  and 
all  because  there  are  now  so  many  different  ways,  to  him  who 
is  clever,  of  making  money.  Formerly,  Bohemia  meant  the 
dingy  tavern  and  the  cheap  cliop-house ;  now,  Bohemia  means 
tlie  flat,  the  club,  the  stalls,  the  studio,  the  greenroom,  the  edi- 
tor's ro(jni — with  frequent  champagne.  The  chop  and  the  pew- 
ter and  the  sanded  floor  have  disappeared  with  the  short  pipe 
of  clay  and  the  shabby  great-coat.  The  young  man  of  the  New 
Bohemia  closely  resembles  the  Gilded  Youth.  lie  dresses  so 
like  him  that  you  cannot  tell  them  apart;  he  dines  at  the  same 
places  and  as  expensively  ;  he  enjoys  the  same  pleasures;  he  is 
seen  at  the  same  haunts ;  he  has  the  same  friends.  The  only 
difference  is  that  the  latter  is  living  on  his  inheritance,  and  that 
the  former  lives  on  his  wits.  If  he  spends  every  penny  that 
his  wits  bring  him  in,  that  is  his  affair,  not  ours. 

Mr.  Clarence  Burghley,  a  young  gentleman  very  well  known 
in  certain  circles,  occupied  a  set  of   upper  chambers  with  his 


YOUTH    IN    A    GARRET  79 

friend  Mr.  James  Pinker,  in  a  mansion  between  Piccadilly  and 
Oxford  Street — one  of  those  great  barracks  in  red  brick  which 
are  transforming  the  West  End.  The  situation  is  in  the  exact 
centre  or  hub  of  the  universe.  Therefore,  it  suited  Clarence 
Burghley.  For  the  profession  of  this  young  man  demanded 
a  central  position.  His  profession  was  the  Making  of  Amuse- 
ment, lie  was  not  an  amusing  young  man  ;  he  was  an  Amuser. 
Other  people  go  about  and  throng  together  seeking  to  be  amused; 
he  went  about  promising  to  amuse.  lie  could  play  the  piano 
with  a  light  and  dexterous  touch — and  sing  to  it  with  a  light 
and  flexible  tenor.  The  songs  he  sang  were  light  and  bright — 
little  songs  of  society — songs  about  smart  people — songs  about 
flirtation — songs  of  the  ball-room,  the  race-course,  the  yacht — 
songs  of  the  surface  ;  they  were  so  light  and  so  actual  that  they 
seemed  to  be  improvised.  You  could  not  buy  these  songs,  and 
nobody  else  had  them  to  sing.  Then  he  could  play  the  violin 
and  make  it  do  tricks  like  a  trained  dog,  and  he  could  toucli 
the  banjo  with  a  master's  hand.  lie  gave,  at  private  houses, 
little  entertainments,  consisting  of  songs  and  burlesques,  paro- 
dies and  talk.  He  also  had  a  collection  of  original  comediet- 
tas, little  dramas,  and  proverbs,  unprinted,  unpublished,  and  not 
to  be  procured  anywhere,  with  which  he  furnished  the  private 
theatricals,  lie  himself  being  stage-manager  and  actor.  Clarence 
■was  the  son  of  an  actor  and  the  grandson  of  an  actor,  and  there- 
fore to  the  manner  born.  All  that  he  did  was  dexterously  done  • 
all  that  he  sang  or  acted  or  played  was  light  and  frothy,  without 
reality,  without  emotion,  without  passion.  He  lived  by  these 
performances,  but  he  was  not  accepted  as  a  professional.  If  be 
went  to  a  great  house,  either  on  a  visit  or  for  the  evening,  he 
went  as  a  guest ;  he  was  treated  as  a  guest,  but  he  was  paid  as 
a  professional — a  professional  Amuser.  It  is  a  most  difficult 
profession — one  that  demands  many  and  varied  qualities,  and 
therefore  one  that  should  command  the  highest  respect. 

In  appearance  Clarence  Burghley  was  slight  and  even  deli- 
cate ;  nothing  of  the  athlete  in  him  ;  his  limbs  were  not  those 
of  a  football-player;  his  face  was  smooth,  except  for  a  slight 
mustache ;  it  was  fine  in  features  and  in  expression ;  his  black 
eyes  were  keen,  bright,  and  swift,  under  straight  and  strongly 
marked  eyebrows ;  his  black  hair,  parted  at  the  side,  rose  in  a 


80  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

natural  arch  which  helped  to  give  him  a  look  of  distinction. 
In  such  a  profession  a  look  of  distinction  is  invaluable. 

For  a  youth  in  this  profession  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
wear,  in  his  own  rooms,  a  brown  velvet  coat,  no  waistcoat,  a 
crimson  sash,  and  a  wliite  silk  tie.  It  was  also  natural  that  the 
rooms  should  be  decorated  and  adorned  up  to  the  latest  note 
of  festhetics.  In  a  word,  tliis  young  man  looked  exactly  what 
he  was — a  young  man  of  Piccadilly  ;  the  flower,  or  fruit,  what- 
ever you  please,  of  the  London  pavement;  a  young  man  born 
in  the  town,  brought  up  in  the  town,  and  unable  to  live  out 
of  the  town. 

His  friend,  Mr.  James  Pinker,  who  shared  the  chambers  with 
him,  shared  also,  though  the  fact  was  not  proclaimed  abroad, 
the  profits  and  proceeds  of  the  business.  The  division  of  work 
was  simple.  James,  not  Clarence,  was  the  poet  and  dramatist. 
He  it  was  who  wrote  the  songs  and  comediettas  and  the  musi- 
cal entertainments.  Clarence  sang  and  acted  them.  James  ar- 
ranged the  engagements  and  accepted  the  invitations,  modestly 
signing  himself  "  Private  Secretary."  A  very  promising  part- 
nership it  was,  and  one  that  became  more  lucrative  every 
day.  At  ten  guineas  a  night,  if  you  can  arrange  for  five  nights 
a  week  and  nine  months  in  the  year,  the  returns  mount  up 
to  £2000  a  year.  And  there  are  no  expenses  at  all,  except 
cabs.  Nothing  was  said  in  public  about  the  partner.  Not 
tliat  Clarence  went  about  pretending  to  be  the  author  of  the 
songs  and  things.  Not  at  all.  Nobody  ever  asked  him  who 
was  the  author.  People  think  that  an  entertainment  grows 
spontaneously  out  of  the  brain  of  the  singer  ;  they  regard  the 
author  no  more  than  they  regard  the  service  which  provides  the 
dinner. 

Mr.  Pinker  was  not  brought  up  to  the  profession  of  enter- 
tainment poet;  quite  the  opposite.  He  was  destined  by  his 
parents,  who  did  not  belong  to  the  upper  circles,  to  advance  the 
family  one  step  by  becoming  a  solicitor.  He  was  duly  admitted. 
Put  he  then  found,  what  no  one  expected,  that  there  was  no 
room  for  him  anywhere.  Not  even  as  a  clerk  could  he  obtain  a 
living.  It  was  the  stimulus  of  necessity  which  caused  him  to 
become  a  poet.  In  fact,  he  had  always  written  verses  for  his 
own  amusement.     His  old  school-fellow  Clarence  used  to  sing 


YOUTH    IN    A    GARRET  81 

them,  also  for  amusement.  At  a  certain  crisis  in  their  fortiines, 
both  being  stone-broke,  and  with  no  prospect  of  any  further 
suppUes  from  any  quarter.  Jemmy  Pinker  hit  upon  the  private- 
party  plan,  and  the  evening  entertainment  of  funny  society 
songs.  For  himself,  he  had  never  gone  into  society.  He  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  smart  people;  he  had  no  occasion  for  a 
dress-coat;  he  preferred — not  that  he  ever  got  the  choice — a 
steak  and  a  pint  of  Bass  in  a  tavern  to  the  company  of  count- 
esses ;  he  was  quite  satisfied  with  what  his  partner  told  him 
about  society  and  the  simple  wants  of  after-dinner  people. 

In  appearance  the  poet  was  "homely" — a  good  old  word 
fast  dying  out ;  his  features,  that  is,  were  undistinguished  ;  his 
hair  was  of  a  warm  hue,  approaching  to  red ;  his  figure  was 
short ;  his  very  fingers  were  short  and  broad.  He  sat  with  his 
short  legs  curled  under  his  chair ;  his  gray  eyes  were  sharp 
and  bright ;  his  face  was  habitually  serious,  as  becomes  one  who 
is  always  meditating  responsible  and  money -getting  work;  he 
seldom  smiled  ;  he  never  laughed. 

The  profession  of  entertainment  poet — writer  of  topical  songs 
— is  not  quite  the  highest  branch  of  the  poet's  art.  It  is  not, 
however,  within  everybody's  reach.  There  must  be  the  genius 
or  natural  aptitude  for  the  work.  It  must  be  studied  and  prac- 
tised. After  a  time,  in  the  case  of  one  to  the  manner  born,  it 
becomes  easy — the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  ;  that  is,  after  the 
time  when  the  poet  has  not  only  cultivated  his  own  powers,  but 
has  gauged  and  grasped  exactly  the  requirements  of  his  audi- 
ence. The  jokes  and  quips  and  turns,  for  instance,  need  not  be 
too  original ;  people,  especially  after  dinner,  like  their  old  and 
expected  friends;  new  work  —  unexpected  work  —  makes  them 
uncomfortable;  they  expect  the  usual  situations,  the  usual  end- 
ing, the  usual  jokes;  novelty  interferes  with  digestion.  This  limi- 
tation ]Mr.  Pinker  thoroughly  appreciated.  And  it  made  his  work 
easy;  in  fact,  no  young  man  in  London,  working  for  his  daily 
bread,  had  a  more  easy  life.  lie  had  no  misgivings  about  the 
dignity  or  value  of  his  work  ;  he  liked  it.  He  made  rhymes  upon 
everything,  and  noted  them  in  a  pocket-book;  he  thought  in 
rhyme,  and  he  talked  in  rhyme  sometimes,  just  to  keep  his  Iiand 
always  in.  It  was  a  perfectly  grave  and  serious  business — that 
of  providing  metrical  means  for  mirth. 


82  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  Conrago,  Clary,"  said  tlic  poet,  finisliing  his  breakfast. 
"The  season  is  almost  over." 

"  Thank  goodness  ! — yes." 

"  Only  two  more  engagements.  To-night  at  the  Baroness 
Potosi's.  To-morrow  at  Lady  Newbegin's.  The  Baroness  ex- 
pected you  to  go  up  the  back  stairs,  but  I  explained." 

Clary  was  a  little  jumpy  this  morning.  He  cursed  the  Baron- 
ess. At  the  end  of  a  fatiguing  season,  with  champagne  every 
day,  one  is  apt  to  be  jumpy. 

"  What  is  it,  old  man  ?  Come,  things  couldn't  look  rosier. 
We've  had  an  excellent  season,  and  you  are  booked  for  half 
September  and  the  whole  of  October  and  November  —  good 
houses — pleasant  houses — all  of  them."  , 

"  It's  the  fag  of  the  work,  I  suppose.  And  sometimes  I  be- 
gin to  worry  about  what  we  shall  do  when  they  get  tired  of 
me." 

"Look  here,  Clary"  —  his  partner  got  up  and  slowly  filled 
liis  pipe  —  "they  never  do  get  tired  of  anybody  so  long  as  he 
can  make  'em  laugh.  When  he  can't  make  'em  laugh  any 
longer,  he  may  go  and  hide  himself.  You  go  on  singing  and 
I'll  go  on  making  'em  laugh  for  you.  Next  year  we'll  make  a 
clear  thousand  apiece  out  of  it — see  if  we  don't."  He  lit  his 
pi[)e  and  sat  down  again,  tucking  his  feet  under  the  chair. 
"Make  'em  laugh.  Something  in  that  idea,  isn't  there?"  lie 
pulled  out  a  pocket-book.  "Mouth  gaping,  cheeks  aglow, 
Laughlit  eyes — is  'laughlit'  right? — in  mirthful  row,  When  fun 
and  farce  begin.  lie  that  pleases — not  you.  Clary — he  may  try 
Tears  and  groans  to  make  'em  cry.  Let  me  sing — you,  that  is. 
Clary,  if  you  please — to — "  He  bit  the  point  of  his  pencil. 
"Let  me  sing,"  he  repeated  gravely,  "to  make  'em  grin."  He 
made  a  note  of  these  beautiful  and  suggestive  words,  and 
looked  at  them  critically. 

"  As  for  you,"  grumbled  the  other,  "  it's  always  the  same. 
You  are  always  satisfied." 

"  Generally.  I  have  reason  to  be.  I  have  a  partner,  by 
whose  help  my  verses  are  a  small  gold-mine.  Quite  satisfied. 
Give  me  my  pipe  and  my  beer,  and  my  Chloe — my  Chloe — there's 
no  good  rhyme  to  Chloe — and  I  ask  no  more." 

"  As  for  mo,"   said   Clarence,  whose  temper   was  short  this 


YOUTH    IN    A    GARRET  83 

morning,  "  I've  got  to  do  the  work.  I  belong  to  the  service. 
I  ought  to  wear  woollen  epaulettes  and  white-thread  gloves." 

"  Rubbish  !  People  don't  know,  or  if  they  do,  it  doesn't 
matter.     They  think  your  father  left  you  money." 

Clarence  laughed.  "  If  they  think  that,"  he  said,  "  they  will 
think  anything.  My  father  leave  me  any  money  ?  My  dear 
James,  you  don't  understand  my  father's  ocean-like  capacity  for 
absorbing  all  the  money  there  is.  He  left  me  nothing  but  his 
debts,  which,  of  course,  I  did  not  pay.  Why  should  I?  On  ac- 
count of  his  good  name  ?     The  dear  man  had  none." 

"  Ah !  No  name !  The  Nameless  One  ! — the  Nameless  One — " 
But  he  shook  his  head. 

"They  carried  on,  he  and  the  granddad,  as  if  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  money  at  all,  or  as  if  they  had  millions.  Wonder- 
ful men  both,  but  especially  the  granddad.  He  got  whatever 
he  wanted;  he  wanted  everything;  he  paid  for  nothing.  How? 
I  don't  know." 

"  Unspeakable  are  the  gifts  of  the  gods." 

"Of  course  they  led  the  Joyous  Life  all  the  time.  Never 
anything  but  Joyousness  in  the  house  as  long  as  I  can  remem- 
ber. Joyousness,  with  troops  of  topers,  girls,  and  merrymakers, 
and  men  in  possession  looking  on  with  a  grin." 

"  I  would  I  had  known  your  sainted  ancestors.  Clary.  We 
want,  in  fact,  more  Joyousness — a  great  deal  more  Joyousness. 
Let  us  start  a  Joyous  Club.  I  am  sure  it  would  succeed  with 
troops,  as  you  say,  of  topers,  girls,  and  merrymakers.  Couldn't 
we  have  a  Lament  over  past  Joyousness  ?"  He  took  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  improvised  : 

"  Where  are  tliey  gone — the  merry,  merry  men  ? 
Wliere  are  they  gone — the  merry,  merry  days  ? 
Why  did  they  leave  us,  wlio  were  so  merry  tlien  ? 

Wliy  did  they  talie  witl»   them  their  merry,  merry  ways? 

I'm  afraid  that's  pitched  just  one  note  too  high  for  our  peo- 
ple. Clary.  They  don't  like  real  sentiment.  Yet  it  looks  as  if  it 
might  be  worked  up,  too.  'Merry,  merry  days'  —  even  the 
smart  people  ain't  always  young." 

"  Why,  I  dream  of  millions,  just  from  habit,  because  they 


84  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

were  such  excellent  actors  that  I  really  thought  they  did  have 
millions.    Wouldn't  it  be  glorious  to  have  a  million  or  two?    If 
you  were  offered  your  choice  of  things,  wouldn't  you  choose  a 
million  down  in  hard  cash  ?" 
"  Perhaps  I  would. 

"Some  Jolinnies  marcli  in  glory's  ranks  — 
Some  toy  with  Chloe's  locks ; 

that's  how  Chloe's  got  to  come  in — 

"I'd  find  my  joy  in  City  banks, 
And,  if  I  could,  in  stocks." 

Again  the  note-book.  "  The  millionaire,  you  see,  could  buy  up 
all  the  locks  of  all  the  Chloes  and  a  fair  slice  of  glory  too. 
Some  Johnnies — it  isn't  very  bad — march  in  glory's  ranks,  some 
toy  with  Chloe's  locks." 

Clarence  laughed.  He  sat  down,  took  the  morning  paper, 
unfolded  it,  then  lie  went  on  talking. 

"I  wish  you  had  known  the  granddad,"  he  went  on.  "Good 
old  man  !  He  only  died  ten  years  ago,  having  being  born  about 
the  beginning  of  the  century.  He  acted  and  told  stories  and 
made  love  to  the  very  end.  I  think  he  always  believed  that  he 
was  only  thirty."  He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  opened 
the  paper.  Then  he  jumped  up  and  screamed  aloud:  "O  Lord! 
O  Lord  !     Here's  a  wonderful  thing  !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  What  were  we  saying  ?  Millions  we  talked  about.  Good 
Lord  !"  He  stared  at  his  friend  as  one  too  much  amazed  for 
speech. 

"Well,  but  what  is  it?" 

"There's  an  estate  said  to  be  worth  twelve  millions  and  more 
waiting  for  an  heir  to  turn  up." 

"  Does  it  concern  either  of  us?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Wc  were  talking  about  millions,"  Clarence 
said,  breathlessly.  "  About  millions  !  You  shall  hear.  Here 
is  the  article.     Read  it !" 

The  poet  read  it  through,  taking  five  minutes.  "  Well,  it 
doesn't  matter  to  us,  does  it  ?" 

"  To  you  ?    No — to  me  ?    I  don't  know.     Look  here,  Jemmy. 


YOUTH    IN   A    GARRET  85 

This  is  a  most  wonderful  coincidence,  if  it  is  a  coincidence. 
Tlie  dead  man's  name  was  John  Calvert  Barley.  My  grand- 
father's name  was  Henry  Calvert  Burghley,  spelled  with  a  'gh '; 
my  father's  name  was  Elliston  John  Calvert  Biirgliley  ;  and  my 
name  is  Clarence  John  Calvert  Burghley.    Is  that  coincidence?" 

"  But,  Clary,  my  boy,  your  surname  is  different." 

"  My  grandfather  may  very  Avell  have  altered  his  name  —  put 
in  the  '  gh '  for  pretty.  It's  quite  the  theatrical  way,  and  what 
one  would  expect.  The  proper  spelling,  I  expect,  was  Burley, 
without  the  '  gh  ' ;  the  way  this  Dives — this  master  of  millions 
— spelled  it.  Well,  now — if  I  am  right,  what  relation  was  Dives 
to  my  grandfather,  to  whose  generation  he  belonged  ?" 

"  What  do  you  know  about  your  own  people  outside  your 
grandfather?" 

"  You  see  before  yon,  my  friend,  a  man  who  has  no  people 
except  the  limited  number  of  progenitors  I  have  already  men- 
tioned." 

"  But  you  must  know  something.     Have  you  no  cousins  ?" 

"  I've  got  nobody.  I  don't  even  know  who  my  mother  was. 
She  died  when  I  was  quite  young.  I  never  once  asked  my 
father  about  her,  nor  did  he  ever  tell  me  anything  about  her. 
I  suppose  she  must  have  had  relations,  but  they  never  came 
near  me.  And  my  grandfather  must  have  had  cousins,  but  I 
never  heard  of  them.  I  know  nothing  about  anybody  but  these 
two.  Nothing  separates  relations  more  than  the  habit  of  bor- 
rowing. If  you  carry  on  the  Joyous  Life,  you  must  borrow. 
Now,  if  you  had  known  my  father,  James,  you  would  under- 
stand that  he  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to  talk  about  the  domes- 
tic affections.  The  affections  that  are  not  domestic  might — 
and  did — engage  his  serious  attention  and  his  continual  conver- 
sation, but  not — no — not  those  of  the  home  kind." 

"  Well,  there  was  your  grandmother." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  her.  She  is  prehistoric.  The 
old  man  resembled  his  son  in  that  respect  that  the  home  affec- 
tions were  insipid  to  him.  They  lacked  flavor;  he  liked  his 
food  spiced  and  seasoned  and  curried — deviled,  in  fact.  We 
never  talked  about  such  things  as  wives  in  that  pagan  taber- 
nacle which  we  called  home.  The  old  man,  I  say,  led  the  Joy- 
ous Life.     He  was  never  serious ;  I  believe  he  dreamed  jokes 


86  DEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

and  made  lovc-soiigs  in  his  sleep.  *  Life  to  the  end  enjoyed, 
here  Roscius  lies,'  is  written  on  his  tombstone.  Not  original, 
but  it  served.  His  life  was  one  long,  continual  banquet,  for 
which  somebody — I  know  not  who — footed  the  bill.  Well,  the 
fact  is — I  don't  know  anything." 

"  After  all,"  said  his  partner,  reflectively,  "  a  man  cannot  be 
without  any  relations  at  all  in  the  world.  And  here  we  have  a 
clew  to  the  family.  Clary,  let  us  have  a  shy  at  those  twelve 
millions.  If  we  get  them,  you  can  go  out  and  make  'em  cry,  if 
you  like. ' 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?    We  can't  ask  a  dead  man  anything." 

"  No.  But  there  are  registers  and  wills  and  letters  and  docu- 
ments of  all  kinds.  Have  you  got  your  grandfather's  will  ? — your 
father's  will?" 

Clarence  laughed.  "  You  might  as  well  ask  me  if  I  have  his 
landed  estates.  Even  your  poetic  brain,  my  partner,  cannot  re- 
alize the  existence  of  a  butterfly.  Make  a  will  ?  That  is  pro- 
viding for  the  future  from  the  past !  These  two  had  no  past 
and  had  no  future.  They  had  nothing  but  the  present.  And 
in  the  present  they  spent  all  they  could  get  or  borrow.  There 
was  no  will,  bless  you." 

"  Have  you  got  no  papers  at  all  ?" 

Clarence  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  There's  a  desk.  It  was  the 
old  man's.  Since  he  never  opened  it,  there  is  probably  some- 
thing in  it  that  other  people  might  call  useful.  I  once  oj»ened 
it  to  see  if  there  was  any  money  in  it.  There  wasn't.  Only 
papers.     I  will  go  and  get  it." 

He  brought  back  not  only  a  small  rosewood  desk,  but  also  a 
bundle  of  papers  tied  up  with  string.  "  Here's  the  desk,"  he 
said,  *'  and  here  are  some  papers  that  I  found  after  my  father's 
death,  all  piled  in  a  drawer.  I  lied  them  up,  but  I  have  never 
looked  at  them." 

"Now,  then" — the  poet-solicitor  looked  immensely  impor- 
tant— "  what  we've  got  to  do  is  this.  I  know.  I  have  not 
served  five  years  in  a  solicitor's  chambers  for  nothing.  We 
must  first  prove  that  you  are  the  lawful  son  of  Elliston  John 
Calvert  Burghley ;  then,  that  he  was  the  lawful  son  of  Henry 
Calvert  Burghley  ;  then,  that  he  was  something  pretty  close  to 
the   late   John   Calvert  Burley.     After  that  ...  I  say,  Clary, 


YOUTH    IN    A    GARRET  87 

if  this  should  come  ofE !  What  a  thing  it  will  be  for  both 
of  us!" 

"  Don't,  Jemmy,  don't.  I  can't  bear  it.  My  throat  swells. 
I  can't  speak.  Twelve  millions  1"  He  did  not  apparently  resent 
the  assumption  of  partnership  in  the  inheritance  as  well  as  the 
business. 

"Go  away  now.  Clary.  It's  lucky  you  have  got  a  man  of 
business  for  your  partner.  Go  and  walk  somewhere ;  get  out 
among  fields  and  daisies  and  skylarks  and  the  little  cockyolly 
birds ;  sit  by  the  babble  of  the  brook ;  catch  the  fragrance  of 
the  brier-rose  ;  Nature  calls ;  go  listen  to  the  voice  of  Nature." 

"  I  hate  the  voice  of  Nature,"  said  the  young  man  of  the 
town.  "  The  daisies  and  the  skylarks  would  just  now  drive  me 
mad.  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  go  mad  with  the  mere  thought  of  the 
thing.  I  don't  want  silence ;  I  want  noise  and  action.  I  will 
go  and  play  billiards  with  the  windows  open,  so  as  to  get  all  the 
noise  there  is.  That  will  steady  the  nerves,  if  anything  can. 
And,  I  say,  Jemmy,  how  long,  do  you  think,  before — " 

"  Come  back  to  lunch  at  half-past  one.     Now  go  away." 

He  went  away.  He  put  on  his  boots  and  his  hat.  On  his 
way  out  he  put  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "  Found  anything  yet? 
I  say,  twelve  millions  !  Oh,  if  the  old  man  could  have  had 
that  almighty  pile  !  Get  it  for  me,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to 
spend  it !" 

He  came  back  about  one  o'clock. 

His  partner  looked  up  from  his  papers.  His  face  was  seri- 
ous. "  Clary,"  he  said,  "  this  is  no  laughing  matter.  Sit  down. 
Now,  then,  are  we  to  continue  partners  ?  If  so,  you  shall  have 
all  my  business  energies  as  a  solicitor.  Mind,  it's  an  awful  big 
thing.  If  I  pull  it  off  for  you  I  shall  be  content  with  ten — a 
simple  ten  per  cent.  A  million  and  a  quarter  !  It  isn't  much, 
but  with  thrift  I  could  make  it  do.  Yes — oh  yes — with  thrift 
and  care  and  scraping  I  would  make  it  do." 

"  I  agree.     Only  get  it  for  me." 

They  shook  liands  upon  the  bargain. 

"I  will  put  our  agreement  in  black  and  white  presently; 
meantime,  1  have  discovered  one  secret.  Your  grandfather, 
Clary,  was  certainly  a  brother  of  the  deceased  Dives.     I  am 


88  BEYOXD  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

quite  sure  he  was.  So  tliat  you  are  a  grandnophow,  and  there- 
fore one  of  the  heirs.  Of  course  we  don't  know  how  many 
other  heirs  there  may  be." 

Clarence  turned  perfectly  pale  ;  he  staggered.  lie  sat  down, 
and  for  a  moment  he  heard  his  partner  talking,  but  could  not 
understand  what  he  was  saying.     He  revived  and  listened. 

"...  will  take  jolly  good  care  not  to  part  with  it  until  we 
have  established  the  case  beyond  any  doubt.  They  will  want  a 
case  complete  at  every  point.  Don't  wriggle  about  in  your 
chair  like  that,  Clary.     Sit  quiet,  man  !" 

"  I  can't.  Things  arc  too  real.  Go  on — get  on  quicker,  man. 
One  would  think  it  was  a  ten-pound  note — not  twelve  millions — 
millions — millions  !  Oh  !"  lie  threw  himself  back  into  his 
chair,  and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  groaned.  "  Oh  ! 
I  feel  like  a  woman.  I  could  cry.  Millions  !  Millions!  Oh  ! 
Do  you  think — do  you  think — we  may — " 

"  Pull  yourself  together,  old  man.  Now  listen.  This  is  our 
case,  so  far.  Your  father  and  grandfather  had  some  sense. 
Their  marriage  certificates  are  among  the  papers.  I  confess. 
Clary,  when  you  talked  about  the  butterfly  and  the  domestic 
affections,  I  began  to  fear — but  that's  all  right.  These  cer- 
tificates are  the  first  essentials,  at  any  rate.  Well,  most  of  the 
papers  are  notes  quite  unconnected  with  the  home  affections. 
There  are  verses  of  a  jocund  and  amatory  kind — even  I,  the 
modern  Anacreon,  couldn't  write  better  lines — there  are  play- 
bills, there  are  papers  connected  with  this  and  that  event. 
Your  grandfather  was  lessee  of  the  Theatre  lioyal,  York,  for 
many  years.  Ilis  son  was  born  there ;  he  came  to  London  and 
played  here ;  his  son  grew  up  and  went  on  the  boards  ;  his  son 
married  a  lady  of  the  company  in  which  he  played.  All  tliese 
things  are  plain  to  make  out.  But  who  was  Henry  Calvert 
Biirghley,  to  begin  with?  Now  here  is  a  letter  which  gives  us 
a  clew." 

The  solicitor-poet  handed  over  a  letter  written  on  the  old- 
fashioned  letter-paper,  folded  with  a  wafer  on  it.  "  Dear  Harry," 
it  began:  "We  are  all  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  made  a  start. 
You  can't  be  more  pinched  for  money  tlian  when  you  were  in 
Westminster,  which  may  console  you.  Father  said  nothing 
when  you  did  not  come  home,  except  that  there  was  one  mouth 


YOUTH    IN   A   GARRET  89 

less.  I  shall  run  away  too,  as  soon  as  I  can.  Jaclc  says  that 
if  you  want  money  he  will  buy  out  your  chance  of  getting  any- 
thing out  of  father's  will  for  a  pound  or  two  if  you  like.  J)iit 
Jack  says  that  father  is  only  forty-five,  and  if  he  was  eighty- 
five  he  wouldn't  leave  you  anything  because  you  ran  away.  So 
I  remain  your  affectionate  brother,  Charles." 

"  You  see,  this  is  not  conclusive  proof,  but  it  puts  us  on  the 
track.  Your  grandfather  came  out  of  Westminster ;  his  father 
was  a  miser.  The  intestate  Biirley's  father  was  a  miser  living 
in  Westminster.  We  must  prove  that  there  was  a  brother 
Henry  and  another  brother  Charles  —  Jack  seems  the  eldest 
brother,  probably  John  Calvert  Burley,  and  Charles  is  clearly 
younger  than  Henry.  I  must  say  that  the  case  looks  promising. 
We  should  liave  to  prove  the  change  of  name,  and— and — and 
there  may  be  other  things  to  prove  before  we  establish  the  con- 
nection." 

Clarence  gazed  stupidly  on  the  letter.     He  gasped. 

"  Mind,"  said  the  poet,  "  I  am  quite  sure,  perfectly  sure,  in 
my  own  mind,  that  you  are  the  deceased's  grandnephew.  But 
we  shall  have  to  make  the  lawyers  sure.  And,  Clary,  my  boy, 
this  material  is  not  quite  enough  so  far." 

"  Oh  !"  Clarence  murmured.  "Oh  !  It  would  be  too  much, 
this  wonderful  stroke  of  luck  !  too  much  !  too  much  !  If  I  were 
to  get  it  I  would — I  would  turn  respectable.  And  as  for  going 
out  to  sing — old  man  !"  He  turned  away.  His  heart  was  full. 
The  Joyous  Life,  the  only  life  he  cared  for,  seemed  within  his 
grasp  —  not  like  his  grandfather's,  impecunious,  loaded  with 
debts,  troubled  with  duns ;  but  free,  with  a  capital  of  twelve 
millions  fully  paid  up.  The  poet  looked  at  him  curiously.  And 
he  murmured,  making  a  note  of  it  on  the  spot : 

"  Rich  and  respectable.     01),  what  a  change  it  is ! 
Once  a  poor  vagabond  singing  his  verse ! 
Solemn  and  smug  he  is:    look  at  him  !    Strange  it  is: 
Rich  and  respectable :  guineas  in  purse." 

But  he  was  wrong.  Clary's  ideas  of  respectability  went  no 
further  than  the  respect  which  attaches  to  one  who  pays  his 
way — neither  begs,  nor  borrows,  nor  earns  his  way,  but  pays 
it — along  the  Brimrose  Bath. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  aunt  lucinda  " 

"  Aunt  Lu-cin-da  !" 

The  girl  laid  down  the  paper  she  was  reading  and  squalled — 
it  is  a  rough  and  rude  word,  but  it  is  the  only  word  which  ex- 
presses the  excitement  and  amazement  shown  in  this  cry. 

"Aunt  Lu-cin-da!"  she  repeated. 

The  elderly  lady,  who  was  engaged  in  some  needle  -  work, 
looked  up  quietly. 

"  Well,  my  dear  !    -Another  dreadful  murder?" 

"  Not  nearer  than  Buffalo,  and  that  only  an  Italian  family. 
But,  Auntie,  listen  to  this."  She  took  up  her  paper.  "  No  " — she 
put  it  down  again — "  tell  me  first  what  was  the  full  name  of 
grandfather — your  father  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  ?  Surely  you  know  already. 
He  was  named  James  Calvert  Biirley." 

"Yes;  I  wanted  to  make  quite  sure.  And  father's  full  name 
■was  John  Calvert  Burley.  John  C.  Burley  he  wrote  it.  Yes — 
yes.  Oh  !  it's  the  same  name."  She  jumped  up  and  clapped 
her  hands.  "  Auntie,  where'd  they  come  from — our  people — 
your  people  ?" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  seem  very  much  excited  about  some- 
thing. They  came  from  a  place  in  London  called  Westminster. 
I  believe  the  Queen  lives  there.  Your  grandfather  often  told 
me  about  the  family  house.  It  stood  in  a  street  called  (yollege 
Street,  looking  over  the  gardens  of  Westminster  Abbey." 

"  Oh  !  It's  the  same — it's  the  same."  She  clapped  her  hands 
again.  "  Oh,  go  on.  Auntie  !  What  were  they — by  trade  and 
calling,  I  mean  ?" 

"I  don't  know  that  they  were  anything.  Father  always  al- 
lowed that  there  was  considerable  money  in  the  family.     Ue 


"  AUNT    LUCINDA  91 

got  none,  because  be  ran  away  and  never  went  back  to  ask  for 
bis  share,  nor  learned  anything  at  all  about  them." 

"  Ob  !    He  ran  away.     Wbat  did  be  do  tbat  for  ?" 

"  They  all  ran  away.  He  bad  four  or  five  brothers,  and  they 
all  ran  away  because,  you  see,  my  dear,  their  father  was  a  miser, 
and  made  the  home  too  miserable  to  be  borne." 

"  Oh  !  There  were  brothers.  But  they  couldn't  have  had 
children,  or  there  would  be  heirs." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  dear?  What  heirs?  Your 
great-grandfather  was  a  most  dreadful  miser,"  Aunt  Lucinda 
continued.  "  Father  used  to  tell  how  he  would  go  out  with  a 
basket  and  bring  it  home  filled  with  bones  and  crusts  and  broken 
vegetables — everything  he  could  pick  up.  The  boys  were  half- 
starved  and  went  in  rags — so  they  ran  away.  Your  father  was 
helped  by  his  mother's  people,  who  made  him  a  lawyer,  and  then 
— then — he — came  over" — she  hesitated  a  moment  and  changed 
color — "  and  settled  here,  you  know." 

The  girl  nodded,  and  clapped  her  bands  again.  "  Why,"  she 
cried,  "  there  can't  be  any  doubt !  The  miser  only  died  the 
other  day — at  least,  I  suppose  it  was  the  miser — and — Aunt 
Lucy — Aunt  Lucy  " — she  fell  upon  her  aunt's  neck,  and  laughed 
and  cried — "  oh  I  our  fortune  is  made.  Oh  !  we  are  the  luckiest 
people  in  the  whole  wide,  wide  world.  Oh!  you  poor  thing! 
Never  was  any  one  so  lucky.  It  isn't  too  late  to  enjoy  yourself, 
though  father  was  so  unlucky  with  the  money.  We  must  begin 
to  consider  at  once  wbat  is  best  to  do.  There  is  no  time  to  lose. 
Perhaps  we  can  get  a  lawyer  in  London  to  do  the  thing ;  but 
English  lawyers  are  dreadful,  I  believe.  Perhaps  we  shall  even 
have  to  go  over  ourselves." 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not  understand  one  single  word  that  you  are 
saying." 

"  We  could  borrow  some  money,  we  shouldn't  want  much  ;  I 
suppose  they'll  give  up  at  once  when  they  see  the  proofs.  Oh ! 
Auntie — you  shall  be  the  richest  woman  in  the  whole  world  ; 
you  shall  have  new  frocks  by  the  dozen — " 

"I~)ear  child!  What  is  it?"  she  repeated,  with  some  trouble 
gathering  in  her  eyes. 

"  Listen,  Auntie  !  Only  listen  !  Oh  !  listen.  It  takes  my 
breath  away  only  to  think  of  it.     Listen  !  listen  !  listen  !     Oh  ! 


92  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

it's  the  most  wonderful  tiling  that  ever  happened  to  anybody. 
All  the  good  things — the  Iiickv  things — arc  coining  to  America. 
This  is  the  real  land  for  fairy  stories.  All  the  fairies  are  com- 
ing here.  I  am  Cinderella — I  am  Cap  o'  Rushes — I  am  IJcile 
Belle — Oyez  !  oyez  !  oyez  !" 

"  Dear  Ella  " — the  elder  lady  began  to  grow  alarmed — "  are 
you  in  your  senses?" 

"  Xo,  Auntie.  I  am  out  of  them.  But  listen  !"  She  had 
been  jumping  about  and  waving  the  paper  in  her  liaml.  At  last 
she  stood  still  and  read  : 

"HEIRS   WANTED! 

AN    IMMENSK    FORTUNE  ! 

TWELVE    MILLIONS    STERLING! 

SIXTY    MILLION  DOLLARS  ! 

ALL    DROPPING    INTO    QUEEN  VICTORIA'S    LAP  ! 

HEIRS    WANTED    NAME    OF    HURLEY  !" 

"These  are  only  the  head-lines,  Auntie,  just  to  walce  3'on  up. 
There,  sit  up  now.  Open  your  mouth  and  shut  your  eyes  and 
see  what  I  will  send  you.  I  am  Titania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies. 
I  am  the  Lady  Best  of  Good  Luck.     Listen  !  listen  !  listen  ! 

"'People  named  Burley  are  invited  to  read  the  following 
with  attention.  People  whose  mother's  name  was  Bnrlcy  may 
also  find  it  to  their  advantage  to  read  it  with  attention.  People 
whose  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  were  named  Burley  may 
read  it  with  singular  advantage  and  profit.  Till  one  fatal  day 
four  or  five  weeks  ago  there  lived  in  a  little  street  called 
Great  College  Street,  Westminster,  an  old  man,  by  name  John 
Calvert  Burley' — John  Calvert  Burley,  Auntie.  Think  of  that! 
— father's  name  ! — John  Calvert  Burley,"  she  repeated.  "  '  lie 
was  so  old  that  he  had  apparently  outlived  all  his  friends.  At 
all  events  for  forty  years,  as  his  house-keeper  bore  witness,  no 
one  had  called  at  the  house  except  his  business  manager.  lie 
was  ninety-four  years  of  age.  Those  few  people  who  knew  of 
his  existence  knew  also  that  he  was  very  wealthy,  lie  was  so 
very  wealthy  that  his  affairs  were  managed  for  him  at  an  office, 
where  lie  had  formerly  transacted  business  as  a  money-lender, 
by  a  large  staff  of  employes  —  lawyers,  architects,  builders,  ac- 


"AUNT    LUCINDA  93 

countants,  and  clerks.  The  old  man,  who  died  suddenly,  lias,  it 
appears,  left  no  will.  The  estate,  therefore,  in  default  of  heirs, 
falls  to  the  Crown,  and  it  is  the  biggest  windfall  of  the  kind 
that  has  ever  happened.  For  the  property  left  by  this  obscure 
old  man  is  now  estimated  to  be  worth  more  than  sixty  millions 
of  dollars.  As  yet  no  claimants  have  appeared,  though  it  is  ex- 
tremely improbable  that  so  great  a  fortune  will  not  give  birth 
to  endless  claimants.  It  is  most  certain,  moreover,  that  the 
British  Treasury  will  require  the  most  rigid  proof  before  admit- 
ting any  claim.  Meantime  we  advise  everybody  named  Burley 
to  investigate  their  line  of  descent.  If  the  deceased  left  broth- 
ers (which  is  not  likely)  or  nephews  and  nieces,  these  will  be 
the  heirs  to  the  whole  estate.  If  there  arc  neither  nephews  nor 
nieces  the  inheritance  passes  upward  to  the  children,  or  their 
descendants,  of  the  deceased  grandfather.  This  opens  up  a 
wide  vista  of  possible  claims.  For  suppose  the  deceased's  grand- 
father was  born,  say,  in  1V40,  and  had  six  children  —  of  whom 
five  are  concerned  in  this  inheritance.  These  five  children,  born, 
say,  between  1765  and  1775,  may  have  had  five  children  each; 
these  in  their  turn  five  each,  and  so  on — until  we  arrive  at  a 
grand  total  in  the  present  year  of  grace  of  3125,  all  with  claims 
to  this  estate.  This  gives  to  each  the  sum  of  £3520  or  $17,- 
600,  a  painful  illustration  of  the  reducing  power  of  common 
division.' 

"  There,  Auntie,  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

This  conversation  took  place  in  a  small  house  —  a  wooden 
bouse,  painted  a  light,  yellowish  brown,  with  a  green  porch  and 
green  jalousies,  and  at  the  side  a  small  orchard.  The  house 
stood  in  the  main  street  of  a  little  New  England  town  which  had 
a  special  industry  in  chair-legs.  It  was  quite  a  small  house, 
containing  only  one  sitting-room,  a  veranda,  a  kitchen,  and  two 
or  three  bedrooms.  Of  the  two  ladies  who  lived  in  this  house 
one,  the  elder,  was  a  lady  of  a  certain  age,  who  had  a  little — a 
very  little  money.  The  other,  her  niece,  a  girl  of  twenty-one  or 
two,  was  engaged  as  cashier  in  the  most  considerable  factory  of 
chair-legs  in  the  place.  The  appearance  of  the  elder  lady,  formal 
in  her  manner,  precise  in  her  dress,  indicated  the  great  respecta- 
bility of  the  family.  Nobody,  in  fact,  could  be  more  respect- 
able. 


94  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Tcwksbury,  Mass.,  is  a  town  in  whicli  the  feminine  clement 
largely  predominates.  The  girls  take  all  the  places,  berths,  and 
appointments,  and  do  all  the  work  at  half  the  pay  that  should 
be  given  to  the  men  for  the  same  work.  Therefore  the  men — 
the  few  men  who  are  born  in  this  town — go  away  AVest,  and 
the  women,  thus  achieving  their  independence,  are  happy.  The 
future  of  Tcwksbury,  Mass.,  is  uncertain,  but  as  the  greater  part 
of  a  chair-leg  can  be  made  by  women  just  as  well  as  by  men,  it 
is  calculated  that  another  fifty  years  will  see  the  end  of  the  town. 
This  will  be  a  pity,  because  it  is  a  very  pretty  place,  and  in  the 
summer  most  umbrageous  with  shade-trees.  Yet  who  would  not 
rather  be  a  cashier  in  a  chair-leg  factory  than  a  mere  wife  and  a 
meek  mother,  slaving  for  a  husband  and  for  children?  Tcwks- 
bury stands  for  many  other  places — we  ourselves,  if  we  live  long 
enough,  may  witness  the  destruction  of  our  own  towns,  when 
women  have  fully  resolved  on  their  independence  and  have 
driven  the  men  out  of  the  country. 

In  the  town  of  Tcwksbury,  not  only  do  women  predominate, 
but  women  rule.  Theirs  is  the  literary  society  ;  theirs  is  the 
circulating  library  ;  they  form  the  committee  for  the  lecture 
programme ;  they  get  up  the  school  and  church  feasts  and 
treats  and  social  teas  and  summer  picnics.  It  is  a  Ladies'  Para- 
dise, with  as  little  as  possible  of  the  other  sex,  and,  in  fact, 
there  are  very  few  husbands  and  no  marriageable  bachelors, 
and  the  boys  have  to  sit  on  the  same  benches  as  the  girls,  and 
arc  not  only  taught  to  behave  pretty,  but  to  acknowledge  the 
superiority  of  women's  intellect,  being  admonished  thereon  by 
the  result  of  every  examination. 

The  Tcwksbury  Paradise  is  an  Eden  of  culture  with  the  dis- 
turbing element  left  out.  Also,  needless  to  say,  that  it  has  its 
commonplaces  or  maxims  generally  admitted — of  which  the  one 
about  the  insufKciency  of  money  to  satisfy  the  soul  naturally 
commends  itself  to  a  community  of  women  living  on  a  very  few 
dollars  a  week.  Yet,  you  see  how  Philosophy  may  break  down. 
What  power  had  this  maxim  over  the  soul  of  Ella  Burley  when 
she  read  this  intelligence  and  was  tempted  by  the  prospect  of 
these  millions  ?    Alas  I    Poor  Philosophy  !    Whither  wilt  thou  fly  ? 

"  Auntie  !"  cried  the  girl  again.  "  Don't  look  like  that !  Say 
something  !     Get  up  !     Get  up  !" 


"  AUNT    LUCINDA   '  95 

Miss  Lucinda  Burley  took  off  her  spectacles  and  gazed  into 
space. 

"  Sure  enoiigli,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  Father  came  out  of  that 
street — and  I  suppose  the  man  just  dead  must  have  been  his 
brother.  Sure  enough !  One  brother,  I  know  —  the  eldest 
brother — remained  at  home — ninety-four.  Yes,  he  must  have 
been  my  uncle — ninety-four  !     It's  like  a  dream." 

"Sure  enough,  then,  that  great  fortune  is  ours — isn't  it? 
Unless  the  other  brothers — but  that  isn't  likely,  or  they  would 
have  come  forward.     It  is  ours,  Auntie — ours." 

To  the  girl's  amazement  her  aunt  at  this  juncture  turned  per- 
fectly white,  and  began  to  tremble  and  to  shake. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  !"  she  cried,  "  put  it  out  of  your  head — we 
mustn't  claim  it.  We  mustn't  think  of  it.  Oh  !  it  cannot  be 
ours.     Don't  so  much  as  think  of  it." 

"  Not  claim  it?  Not  think  of  it  ?  But,  Auntie,  it  is  ours  by 
right.  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?"  For  now  Aunt  Lucinda  ap- 
peared to  be  nigh  unto  fainting.  "  It  is  the  sudden  shock  that 
is  too  much  for  you.  Dear  Auntie,  lie  down — so.  Oh  !  and  I 
thought  you  were  sitting  so  calm  and  quiet  over  it — and  I  was 
so  excited.  Lie  down — so — and  let  me  talk.  What  was  I  say- 
ing ?  Oh!  Yes,  you  are  the  niece  and  I  am  the  grandniece 
of  the  rich  man's  brother.  There  were  other  brothers,  but 
their  descendants  have  not  put  in  a  claim.  Now  all  that  is 
wanted  will  be  to  establish  the  relationship.  Well !  here  we 
are.  Grandfather  settled  here.  He  was  a  lawyer  here.  He 
lived  here  and  died  here.  People  remember  him  well ;  every- 
body remembers  James  C.  Burley.  I  remember  him ;  an  old 
man  who  walked  with  a  stiff  knee  and  a  stick.  He  died  fifteen 
years  ago;  he  was  about  seventy-five  when  he  died.  Then 
everybody  remembers  father — John  C.  Burley — who  was  only 
forty-five  when  he  died.  We  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  just 
to  connect  grandfather  with  the  house  in  Westminster." 

"Is  that  all,  Ella?"  The  elder  lady  sat  up.  She  was  still 
pale  and  agitated.  "  Is  that  really  all  that  we  shall  have  to  do? 
Shall  we  not  have  to  go  into  court  and  swear  all  sorts  of  things  ?" 

"  Why — of  course — what  more  can  there  be  ?  If  we  can 
prove  that  James  C.  Burley  was  the  dead  man's  brother,  and 
that  we  arc  his  descendants,  what  more  can  they  want?     Did 


96  HEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVAKICE 

you  tliink  you  would  have  to  stand  up  to  be  bullied  by  a  brutal 
British  lawyer?  Or  were  you  afraid  there  would  be  heavy  law 
expenses,  Auntie?     AVas  that  what  frightened  you?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes.  Oh  !  that  was  what  I  meant.  I  was  afraid. 
It  occurred  to  nie — but  since  that  is  all — " 

"  Why,  dear,  what  nonsense  !  Of  course  that  is  all.  It  will 
all  be  as  plain  as  possible.  We  shall  simply  have  to  show  that 
grandfather  was  this  dead  man's  brother." 

Aunt  Lucinda  sat  up  and  took  the  paper.  But  her  eyes 
swam — she  could  not  read  it ;  she  lay  down  again,  murmuring  : 
"  After  all  these  years — all  these  years — no — no  !" 

"After  all  these  years,  Auntie — yes — yes;  after  all  these 
years  !  Oh  !  To  think  that  we  shall  be  so  rich — so  rich — oh  ! 
so  rich.  Let  us  sit  down  and  make  out  what  we  Avill  do  when 
we  are  so  rich." 

The  girl  was  a  slight  and  slender  creature,  bright  eyed,  rather 
sharp  of  feature  ;  her  hair  nearly  black,  her  black  eyes  deep 
set ;  she  spoke  and  moved  with  animation.  She  was  thoroughly 
alert  and  alive;  she  was  a  well-educated  American  girl  who 
knew  her  mind  and  had  her  opinions.  On  one  table  lay  the 
library  books  she  was  reading  ;  in  the  bookcase  were  her  own 
books ;  on  the  writing-table  lay  the  sheets  of  an  unfinished 
paper  on  the  "  Parleyings  of  Browning,"  which  she  was  writing 
for  the  literary  society.  This  was  a  flourishing  literary  society, 
including  all  the  ladies  in  the  town — two  hundred  and  fifty-five; 
most  of  them  wrote  critical  papers  for  the  society ;  the  rest 
wrote  poems ;  one  or  two  had  written  for  New  York  magazines. 
Fiction  was,  very  properly,  excluded  from  the  work  of  the  so- 
ciety. It  was,  you  see,  a  profoundly  critical  town.  Many  of  the 
ladies,  including  Ella  Burley,  believed  that  the  verdict  of  their 
society  on  the  merits  of  an  author  made  or  marred  that  author. 

Ella  sat  down  beside  the  sofa  on  which  her  aunt  lay,  still 
agitated,  and  began  to  t;ilk.  She  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  im- 
agination for  half  an  hour.  Then  she  remembered  that  supper 
had  to  be  prepared,  and  she  ran  out  into  the  kitchen  which  ad- 
joined in  order  to  make  it  ready.  And  at  intervals  she  ran 
back  again  to  add  another  detail. 

But  the  elder  lady  sitting  upon  the  sofa  looked  about  the  room 
with  troubled  eyes.    "  She  can  find  out  nothing,"  she  murmured. 


"  AUNT    LUCINDA  97 

"  Oh  !  I  burned  all  the  letters  and  papers.  Oh  !  nobody  knows 
except  me — nobody  else  in  the  whole  wide  world.  If  it  were 
discovered  now — after  I've  hidden  it  away  all  these  years  !  After 
all  these  years  !" 

"  Auntie !"  The  girl  ran  in  again.  "  I'm  real  sorry  for  Queen 
Victoria.  She  little  thinks  that  over  here  in  the  Land  of  Free- 
dom there  lives  the  heiress  wlio  is  going  to  make  her  disgorge 
those  millions.  Of  course,  she  reckons  they  are  hers  already. 
Fancy  !  At  Buckingham  Palace — I  see  them  quite  plainly — 
they  are  all  sitting  in  a  circle  round  the  table,  the  Queen  in  the 
middle  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  on  her  right  hand,  contriving 
how  to  divide  and  to  spend  the  money — and  now  they  won't 
have  any  of  it.     Oh  !  what  an  awful  blow  for  them  it  will  be." 

She  disappeared  again. 

When  they  sat  down  to  supper  neither  could  eat  anything 
for  excitement. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  Auntie,"  she  said,  as  if  the  elder 
lady's  mind  was  of  no  account  whatever.  "  I  mean  to  carry 
this  business  through  with  a  rush.  I  will  give  up  my  post  in 
the  factory  to-morrow.  We  must  get  some  money — an  advance — 
a  loan — a  mortgage  on  this  liouse  will  do — it  won't  cost  much 
— we  will  go  second-class  to  Liverpool ;  then  I  suppose  a  week 
or  two  will  be  all  we  want  to  get  the  business  settled.  Why, 
it's  as  plain  as  can  be  —  we  must  get  certificates  or  something 
that  we  arc  the  persons  we  claim  to  be,  and  you  must  get  what- 
ever proofs  you  have  to  connect  grandfather  with  the —  What 
is  it,  dear?"     For  Aunt  Lucinda  was  beginning  to  tremble  again. 

"  Oh  !  Are  you  quite  sure — quite  sure,  dear — that  there  will 
be  nothing  more  wanted  ?  Only  these  certificates  ?  I've  got 
old  letters  up-stairs — letters  from  his  mother  to  my  father — " 

"  Why,  of  course.  What  should  be  wanted  more  than  what 
we  have  ?  Oct  out  every  scrap  of  paper  you  can  find,  and. 
Auntie,  dear,  don't  look  as  if  wc  were  going  to  be  hanged. 
You  shall  be  crowned,  not  hanged,  my  dear,  with  a  coronet — a 
countess's  coronet.     Oh  !  I  feel  so  happy — so  happy  !" 

Three  weeks  later  they  were  sitting  in  a  London  lodging — it 
was  in  Westminster,  so  as  to  be  on  the  spot,  close  to  (ireat 
College  Street;  in  fact,  it  was  in  Smith  Square,  where  stands 

6 


98  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

the  liugc  mass  of  stone  called  the  Church  of  St.  John  the  Evan- 
gelist,   And  it  was  a  cliea])  lodging  of  two  rooms  that  they  took. 

"  Now,  Auntie  " — it  was  the  day  of  their  arrival ;  their  boxes 
were  unpacked  ;  they  had  taken  tea ;  they  had  tried  the  chairs 
and  tlie  sofa;  and  they  were  preparing  to  settle  down — "let 
us  bring  out  our  papers.  Oh,  how  I  used  to  wake  up  at  night 
on  board  the  horrid  ship,  dreaming  that  we  were  in  London 
and  that  we  had  lost  the  things.  Here  they  are."  She  opened 
a  brown  leather  hand-bag  and  took  out  a  bundle  of  papers. 
"  Ilere  are  the  certificates  of  baptism  ;  yours,  father's,  and  mine. 
They're  all  right.  John  Calvert  Barley,  son  of  James  Calvert 
Burley,  lawyer,  and  Alice,  his  wife.  Yours,  too,  Lucinda  Cal- 
vert Burley ;  and  mine,  Ella  Calvert  Burley.  They're  all  right. 
Next,  here  is  the  certificate  to  show  that  the  late  James  Calvert 
Burley,  an  Englishman  by  birth,  lived  in  Tcwksbury,  Massachu- 
setts, and  practised  as  a  solicitor  until  his  death  in  1875.  Here 
is  the  certificate  of  his  death,  with  his  age.  That,  of  course,  will 
correspond  with  his  birth  certificate  at  AVcstminster — in  this 
great  ugly  church,  1  dare  say.  Here  is  my  poor  father's  death 
certificate.  Also  the  certificate  about  his  residence  and  prac- 
tice. Then,  here  are  the  letters  which  you  have  kept — the 
letters  of  his  mother  (my  great-grandmother) — only  five  of 
them,  but  two  are  enough.  '  My  dear  James,'  " — she  took  up 
one  of  the  letters  ;  it  was  folded  in  the  old  fashion,  without  an 
envelope,  and  fastened  with  a  wafer — "  '  I  am  rejoyced  to  hear 
that  you  are  Well  and  Safe  and  that  your  Uncle  Jackman  has 
been  able  to  find  you  Employment.  Your  Father  remains 
Obstinately  Sett  against  Forgiveness,  and  you  must  expect  noth- 
ing from  him  but  Resentment,  unless  you  quickly  return,  which 
I  fear  you  will  not  do.  Write  to  me  often.  You  can  bring 
or  send  the  Letters  to  save  Postage.  Push  them  under  the 
Door.  Be  Good,  my  son,  and  you  will  be  Happy.  Your 
Loving  Mother  —  Frances  Burley.'  The  letter  is  dated,"  the 
girl  went  on,  "December  20th,  1825." 

"  That  was  about  five  years  before  he  crossed  to  America," 
said  Aunt  Lucinda.  "  Tlic  oIIkt  letter  is  very  much  like  it — 
written  a  year  later." 

"  My  grandmother  died  about  the  year  1878, 1  believe.  Auntie, 
the  evidence  is  crushing." 


"aunt  lucinda"  99 

"  Are  you  quite  sure — quite — that  they  can  ask  no  other 
questions  ?"  Aunt  Lucinda  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Why,  of  course  not.  What  other  questions  can  they  ask  ? 
There  may  be  other  nieces  and  nephews.  But  the  property 
could  be  divided,  I  suppose.  Come,  Auntie,  the  way  lies  plain 
and  easy  before  us.  We  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  send  in  our 
claims.  We  will  find  out  the  way  somehow.  We  will  not 
have  any  lawyers  to  send  in  bills.  A  lawyer's  daughter  ought 
to  know  better.  We  will  just  draw  up  our  statement,  make 
copies  of  the  letters  and  papers,  and  send  them  in — the  copies, 
of  course.  W^'hy,  Auntie,  I  wouldn't  trust  even  Queen  Victoria's 
lawyers  with  the  originals.  There,  we  will  put  them  all  back 
for  to-night,  and  to-morrow — ah  !" — she  drew  a  long  breath — 
"  we  will  spend  in  drawing  up  our  case.  I  suppose  it  will  be 
examined ''at  once,  and  as  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it,  we 
shall  have  the  property  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Poor  Queen  ! 
She's  a  good  woman  ;  everybody  says  so.  I'm  sorry  she  will 
suffer  through  us.  But,  of  course,  we  can't  help  it.  Perhaps  a 
little  present — a  silver  teapot,  say — would  partly  console  her. 
We'll  find  out  how  such  a  trifle,  as  a  mark  of  respect  from  an 
American  girl,  would  be  received.  I  don't  mind  the  disap- 
pointment of  the  princes  a  bit.  And  nov/,  my  dear,  you  are 
tired  with  the  day's  journey,  though  it's  nothing — really — to 
get  across  this  little  bit  of  an  island.  You  ought  to  go  to  bed 
and  rest.  Otherwise  there  will  be  a  headache  in  the  morning 
and — mind — lie  down  with  a  joyful  heart.  There's  no  more 
doubt,  mind — no  more  doubt  than  there  is  about  the  Stars  and 
Stripes." 

Aunt  Lucinda  obeyed.  But  she  did  not  immediately  go  to 
bed.  She  sat  on  the  bed  and  trembled.  Then  she  locked  the 
door,  and,  falling  on  her  knees,  she  prayed  with  all  the  fervor 
of  a  faithful  Christian,  while  the  tears  ran  down  her  checks. 
"O  God  !"  she  murmured,  "grant  that  it  may  never  be  found 
out  or  sus[)ected.  After  all  these  years  !  And  no  one  knows 
except  myself.  After  all  these  years!  And  he  a  deacon! 
And  our  folks  respected  in  the  town  !  Oh  !  keep  the  sin  a  se- 
cret. Let  it  burn  in  my  heart  and  shame  me  and  torture  me. 
Kill  me  with  it,  and  I  will  never  murmur.  Let  mine  be  the  suf- 
fering and  the  secret  shaiue.     But  keep  it — oh  !  keep  it  from 


100  UEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVAUK'E 

the  innocent  girl.  O  Lord,  if  the  fortune  cannot  come  to  us  by 
reason  of  that  sin,  let  nie  alone  know  that  it  is  the  sin  whicli 
stands  in  the  way." 

In  the  other  room  the  heiress  sat  at  the  open  window  watch- 
ing the  lights  of  the  house  and  listening  to  the  clocks.  She 
was  not  ignorant  of  the  long,  long  history  which  the  Palace  Yard 
and  the  buildings  around  it  illustrate  and  commemorate,  but  her 
thoughts  were  not  with  English  history.  She  was  thinking  of 
the  house  close  by,  whore  her  great-grandfather,  the  miser,  had 
lived,  from  which  her  grandfather  fled.  She  must  contrive  to 
see  that  house  somehow,  as  soon  as  the  case  was  drawn  up  and 
handed  in,  but  not  before.  She  would  present  herself  as  the 
heiress  —  it  would  be  her  own  house — as  soon  as  the  pro{)erty 
was  lianded  over  to  her ;  that  is  to  say,  in  a  week  or  so  at  the 
outside. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS 

It  was  in -the  evening,  in  the  first  glow  of  an  early  autumn 
sunset,  that  Lucian  brought  his  bride  to  her  new  home  in  Great 
College  Street. 

He  had  accomplished,  you  see,  that  strange  desire  to  live  in 
the  house  of  his  forefathers.  He  had  obtained  a  lease  from  the 
administrators  of  the  property  ;  he  had  bought  the  whole  of  the 
furniture  and  fittings,  books,  pictures — everything  as  it  stood, 
and  he  had  cleaned,  painted,  decorated,  and  whitewashed  the 
house.  It  was  his  for  seven  years  on  the  customary  condi- 
tions. 

The  street  was  peaceful  as  the  cab  rolled  into  it ;  the  house, 
clothed  with  its  Virginia-creeper,  just  putting  on  its  September 
splendors,  looked  truly  and  wonderfully  beautiful ;  the  door, 
opened  by  Margaret's  two  maids  with  smiling  faces,  showed  a 
light  and  cheerful  hall.  The  stairs  were  carpeted,  the  walls 
newly  painted ;  the  echoes  were  gone.  Margaret  ran  in  with  a 
light  heart. 

"  Oh  !  how  changed  !"  she  cried.  She  opened  the  dining- 
room  door.  The  table,  laid  for  dinner  and  decorated  with  flow- 
ers, was  in  itself  a  welcome ;  the  dingy  old  walls  had  disap- 
peared, and  in  their  place  were  dainty  panels  of  gray  and  green. 
"The  house  looks  young  again  !  Lucian,  the  past  is  gone  and 
forgotten.  It  is  your  house  ;  the  old  house,  but  transformed. 
Lucian,  I  am  glad  we  came  here." 

"  It  IS  your  home,  my  Margaret."  He  kissed  her.  "  May  it 
})rove  a  happy  and  a  fortunate  home." 

Then  they  talked  of  their  plans.  The  brass  plate  was  on  the 
door,  "  Lucian  Calvert,  M.D.,"  as  an  invitation  to  enter  and  be 
healed.     The  book  which  this  young  physician  was  preparing 


102  BEYOND    TIIK    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

was  nearly  ready ;  his  reputation  would  be  made  by  that  book. 
Formerly  a  young  man  could  not  take  his  degree  till  he  had 
maintained,  before  all  comers,  a  thesis ;  in  these  days  he  takes 
his  degree  first  and  advances  his  tliesis  afterwards.  Oh  !  he 
would  get  on  ;  he  had  confidence  in  himself.  And  not  a  word 
was  said  about  the  ancestors  up-stairs,  or  the  millions  waiting 
for  him  at  the  Treasury. 

Next  day,  breakfast  over,  her  husband  gone  to  the  hospital, 
which  took  his  mornings,  Margaret  began  a  new  exploration  of 
the  house.  First,  she  went  into  Lucian's  study — the  consulting- 
room  of  the  future — the  back  parlor  where  the  old  man  spent 
the  last  fourteen  years  of  his  long  life.  No  sign  of  him  was 
left ;  that  is,  no  outward  and  visible  sign  in  this  room  or  in  any 
other  room.  Since  his  profession  had  been,  as  his  son  called 
it,  "  Destruction  and  Ruin,"  I  dare  say  there  were  evidences  of 
his  industry  to  be  found  outside  the  house — in  poverty-stricken 
ladies,  sous  gone  shepherding,  and  broad  lands  that  had  (^hanged 
owners.  However,  here  the  signs  and  marks  of  him  were  all 
swept  and  carried  away ;  the  windows  were  bright  and  clean ; 
the  sun  shone  upon  the  panes  through  a  frame  or  fringe  of  vine 
leaves-,  the  old  bookcase  now  contained  her  husband's  scientific 
books — the  old  books,  which  were  chiefly  theological  dialogues, 
essays,  and  sermons,  were  gone — packed  off  to  the  twopenny 
boxes  of  the  second-hand  booksellers  ;  the  old  table  was  covered 
with  her  husband's  papers  and  writings  ;  the  colored  engravings 
still  hung  in  the  panels,  but  their  frames  were  newly  gilt ;  as 
for  the  walls  themselves,  they  were  newly  painted  a  pearl  gray, 
with  a  little  warmer  color  for  the  dado  and  the  cornice.  Win- 
dow-curtains were  put  up ;  there  were  new  photographs,  new 
knick-knacks  on  the  mantel -shelf,  and  the  portrait  of  Lucian's 
father  was  placed  in  this  room,  apart  from  the  ancestors  whom 
he  had  renounced.  Could  this  be  the  dingy  room  of  only  six 
weeks  ago  ?  That  represented  age,  squalid,  low-minded,  with- 
out dignity ;  this  meant  youth  and  manhood,  with  noble  aims 
and  lofty  studies. 

The  young  wife  had  nothing  to  do  in  her  liusband's  room. 
She  looked  in  simply  because  it  was  his  room;  it  made  her  feel 
closer  to  liiiii  only  to  stand  in  his  room.  She  was  perfectly  hap- 
py in   that  foolish  satisfaction  with  the   present  which   newly 


"MARGARET    RAN    IN    WITH    A    LIGHT    HKARt" 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS  103 

married  people  ought  to  feel.  There  are  periods  and  seasons 
when  time  ought  to  move  so  very,  very  slowly.  During  the  first 
three  months  of  marriage,  for  instance,  so  as  to  prolong  the  hap- 
piness of  it ;  during  the  last  three  years  of  an  old  man's  life,  so 
as  to  prolong  the  time  of  reminiscence — or,  perhaps,  repent- 
ance; when  one  is  engaged  upon  a  work  of  art,  so  as  to  prolong 
the  delight  and  the  joy  of  the  work.  That  time  will  not  move 
any  slower  to  accommodate  anybody  is  part  of  the  curious  lack 
of  sympathy  between  Nature  and  the  individual. 

Margaret,  for  her  part,  living  in  the  present,  had  forgotten 
those  forebodings.  How  should  forebodings  linger  in  the  mind 
of  a  happy  bride  of  twenty-one  ?  Besides,  the  house,  so  lovely 
within  and  without,  so  quiet  and  peaceful  —  what  had  it  to  do 
with  the  dingy,  dirty,  memory-stricken  place  that  she  had  seen 
six  weeks  ago  ? 

Yet  she  was  to  be  reminded  that  very  morning  of  these  fore- 
bodings. 

She  sighed  —  for  very  happiness.  She  smoothed  the  papers 
and  arranged  the  pens — just  in  order  to  touch  something  of  her 
husband's.  Then  she  looked  out  of  the  window  into  the  little 
garden  with  the  mulberry-tree  and  the  vine,  and  then,  as  if  re- 
luctantly, she  left  the  room  and  softly  shut  the  door. 

Heavens  !  What  a  change  that  magician,  the  house -painter, 
had  effected  !  Nothing  could  look  brighter  than  the  stairs, 
broad,  covered  with  a  soft  carpet,  running  up  between  walls 
newly  painted  and  hung  with  framed  engravings,  lit  by  a  spa- 
cious window,  glorified  by  a  broad  mahogany  balustrade.  When 
she  lifted  her  fresh  young  voice  and  began  to  sing  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs  there  was  no  echo.  All  the  echoes  had  gone.  Why  ? 
Because,  as  Lucian  suggested,  they  love  the  empty  places  of 
the  earth?  It  is  one  of  the  man)'  scientific  questions  which 
cannot  be  answered.  All  the  echoes  had  gone.  Margaret 
opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room.  Similar  changes  had 
transformed  this  room.  The  old  furniture  was  there,  but  it 
was  supplemented  by  modern  things,  imported  by  Margaret  her- 
self. New  tables,  new  chairs,  new  blinds  and  curtains,  new  car- 
pets. The  walls  were  painted  in  a  soft,  delicate  shade.  The 
frames  of  the  portraits  were  regilt.  There  were  new  books,  and 
a  bookcase  full  of  them  ;  and  there  were  fresh  flowers  on  the  table. 


104  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Margaret  looked  at  the  ancestors.  She  began  to  examine  the 
pictures  again.  Once  more  she  felt  those  carious  eyes — deep  set, 
searching,  under  straight  black  eyebrows,  like  Lucian's,  which 
followed  her  about  the  room  —  and  once  more  she  remembered 
their  history,  as  related  by  Lucian's  father  in  those  pages  which 
she  had  read.  Since  she  saw  them  last  they  had  somehow — 
but  that  was  nonsense  —  changed  their  expression.  IIow  can 
pictures  change?  Perhaps  it  was  the  new  gilding  of  the  frames; 
perhaps  it  was  the  general  brightening  of  the  room.  Whatever 
the  reason,  the  ancestors  did  certainly  look  more  cheerful.  The 
original  Calvert  no  longer  brooded  over  past  misdeeds  and  im- 
pending punishment — 'he  now  meditated  deeply  some  great,  if 
not  noble,  enterprise.  The  highwayman,  his  son,  whose  pict- 
ure had  been  brought  down  from  the  garret  and  restored  to  its 
panel,  had  put  aside  the  swagger  which  formerly  distinguished 
his  portrait,  and  now  appeared  with  something  of  the  modesty  of 
a  gallant  soldier  to  whom  death  is  no  evil  compared  with  dis- 
honor. Even  the  miser  looked  as  if  he  were  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  his  last  counting,  and  could  reward  himself  for  his 
success  with  a  few  extra  privations. 

The  ladies,  for  their  part,  appeared  to  smile  upon  her.  A 
strange  fancy  ;  yet  Margaret  could  not  shake  it  off.  They  were 
smiling.  No  doubt  these  changes  were  entirely  due  to  the 
cleaning  of  the  pictures  and  the  brightening  of  their  frames. 
But  still,  it  was  surprising.  These  ladies  smiled  upon  her. 
Why  ?  Because  she  was  now  one  of  the  House  ?  You  may  live 
under  a  false  name,  you  may  renounce  your  ancestors,  but  you 
do  belong  to  them  ;  there  is  only  one  set  of  ancestors  possible 
for  a  man ;  one  set  of  ancestors,  one  cast,  or  mould,  or  type  of 
face,  with  two  or  three  hereditary  tendencies  for  choice.  There- 
fore, when  Margaret  appeared  in  the  drawing-room  as  the  new 
mistress  of  the  house,  and  the  wife  of  the  heir,  these  ladies  nat- 
urally smiled  a  welcome. 

A  little  of  the  former  terror  fell  upon  Margaret.  Not  much; 
but  some.  She  remembered  their  evil  lives,  their  misdeeds, 
and  their  misfortunes.  A  family  specially  marked  out  for 
misfortune  ;  pursued  by  crime,  dishonor,  and  sorrow.  Lucian, 
like  his  father,  had  renounced  his  forefathers.  No  harm  would 
happen  to  him,  therefore.    Yet  Margaret  trembled,  only  to  think 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS  105 

of  the  long  inheritance  of  sorrow.  Her  piano  stood  in  one  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  She  sat  down  and  began  to  play — idly  at 
first.  Then  the  feeling  came  over  her  that  the  ancestors  were 
all  listening.  She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  round  —  all  were 
looking  at  her  ;  the  women,  she  now  thought,  with  compassion 
rather  than  welcome  —  the  men,  with  curiosity.  She  changed 
the  music — it  became  a  grave  and  serious  meditation ;  it  be- 
came sacred  music  ;  she  played  pieces  of  a  mass  she  knew  ; 
finally,  she  played  a  hymn — one  of  the  solemn  hymns  which 
W8  never  sing  now — an  eighteenth-century  hymn — with  a  beau- 
tiful melody  —  a  hymn  in  which  the  soul  feels  her  helplessness, 
and  cries  out  for  help  to  the  place  whence  only  help  can  come. 
All  her  soul  went  heavenward  with  the  music.  As  she  bent  her 
head  over  the  keys  she  became  dreamily  conscious  that  the  men 
Avere  listening  unmoved,  but  curious,  and  that  the  women  were 
weeping  in  their  frames.  And  the  house  was  so  silent — so  si- 
lent— and  she  was  alone  in  it  with  her  ghostly  company.  But 
she  was  not  afraid.     Only  she  felt  excited  and  restless. 

She  arose — pale,  with  set  face  and  eyes  dilated  ;  her  limpid 
eyes,  which  could  so  easily  become  dreamy.  Then,  as  in  a 
dream,  not  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  or  why,  she  left  the 
room,  closing  the  door  after  her,  and  climbed  the  stair,  up — up 
— up,  until  she  reached  the  highest  floor,  and  then  she  walked 
into  the  nursery  and  sat  upon  the  bed. 

Why  was  she  there  ?  She  knew  not,  save  that  her  head  was 
filled  with  the  thoughts  of  the  mothers  and  the  children.  Here, 
in  this  nursery,  generation  after  generation,  the  wives  and  moth- 
ers had  their  brief  time  of  happiness  while  the  children  were 
yet  little.  This  room  was  theirs ;  it  was  sacred  to  them ;  she 
was  one  of  them  now ;  she  was  the  wife  of  the  heir ;  it  was 
right  that  she  should  make  this  room  her  own. 

In  all  "  communications,"  appearances,  conversations,  and 
correspondence  with  the  other  world,  it  has  been  remarked, 
over  and  over  again,  that  we  never  learn  anything  which  we  did 
not  know  before.  Human  knowledge  has  never  been  advanced 
a  single  step.  If  any  revelation  is  made  as  to  the  kind  of  ex- 
istence led  in  the  other  world,  it  is  exactly  the  kind  of  life  led 
at  the  present  moment  by  ourselves  in  this  generation.  This 
makes  certain  scoffers  ask  the  use  of  interrogating  the  spirits. 


106  UEYOND  THE  DUEAMS  OF  AVARICE 

or  of  expecting  any  help  from  them.  In  what  followed,  for 
instance,  Margaret  heard  and  saw  nothing  but  what  she  had 
already  imagined.  The  vision  that  came  to  her  was  already 
in  her  own  brain.  In  what  had  gone  before,  the  threatening 
faces  of  the  portraits,  slie  saw  what  was  in  her  own  brain. 
Nothing  supernatural  in  it  at  all  ?  Nothing  at  all.  Quite  a 
natural  phenomenon. 

She  sat  on  the  old  moth-eaten  bed.  Presently  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  fell  back  upon  the  mattress.  How  long  did  she  lie 
there  unconscious?  I  know  not.  As  for  what  follows,  it  is  ex- 
actly what  she  told  her  husband  that  evening.  One  can  only 
write  down  what  one  is  told.  History  is  often  mystery.  We 
see  what  is  not  there  to  be  seen ;  we  hear  voices  where  there  is 
silence;  our  ghosts  are  all  created  in  the  brain;  wliich,  again, 
is  the  real  reason  why  ghosts  never  tell  anything  that  we  did 
not  know  before. 

Margaret  opened  her  eyes.  It  did  not  surprise  her  that  she 
was  lying  on  the  bed  in  the  nursery.  Nor  was  she  in  the  least 
surprised  to  sec,  standing  round  the  bed,  all  the  women  of  the 
house  ;  the  wives,  the  mothers,  the  daughters.  She  knew  them 
by  their  portraits.  In  fact,  they  stepped  straight  out  of  the 
frames  and  came  up-stairs,  dressed  in  the  things  they  wore  in 
the  pictures,  in  order  to  greet  the  newly  arrived  wife  of  the 
heir.  But  their  faces  were  all  alike,  pale  and  sad.  Their 
hands  were  clasped.  And  when  they  smiled  their  sadness  only 
seemed  the  stronger. 

And  another  thing.  Behind  the  mothers  were  all  the  chil- 
dren, all  the  little  children  that  ever  played  in  this  nursery — 
twenty  little  children,  every  one  three  years  of  age,  all  running 
about  and  tumbling  down,  and,  without  making  the  least  noise, 
going  through  the  forms  of  laughing  and  crying;  some  played 
together  and  some  played  apart ;  children  of  the  last  century  and 
cliildren  of  this.  And  they  were  so  lovely,  all  these  children ; 
the  gift  of  beauty  was  theirs  from  generation  to  generation. 

But  Margaret  turned  from  the  children  to  their  mothers,  for 
they  spoke  to  her.  At  first  they  spoke  all  together,  with  the 
same  faint  smile,  and  with  the  same  sad,  soft  voice. 

"  Welcome,"  they  cried,  "  welcome,  daughter  of  the  House  ! 
Now  art  thou  one  of  us;  one  witli  us." 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS  107 

"  One  of  US,  and  one  with  us,"  they  repeated,  all  with  the  same 
sad  smile ;  "  to  suffer  and  to  weep  with  us — with  all  who  marry 
into  this  House." 

Then  they  spoke  in  turns,  each  telling  the  new  -  comer  lier 
story  of  sadness. 

"  I,"  said  the  first,  who  had  on  her  head  the  Queen  Anne 
commode — "  I  married  the  man  who  committed  the  crime  for 
which  you  have  all  smce  suffered  in  your  turn.  Would  to  God 
I  had  died  first !  How  should  I  know  that  he  had  ruined  his 
master,  and  starved  him  to  death  in  prison,  and  made  his  chil- 
dren beg-gars  ?  I  knew  nothing  till,  in  the  agony  of  bereave- 
ment, he  confessed  it  all.  My  daughter,  my  lovely  girl,  died  in 
her  very  spring.  My  lovely  boy  was  kidnapped  and  carried 
away,  I  know  not  whither  or  to  what  hard  fate;  my  eldest,  as 
brave  and  as  beautiful  as  David's  own  son  Absalom,  was  car- 
ried to  Tyburn  Tree  and  hanged  upon  the  shameful  gallows. 
Oh!  my  son — my  son!  Oh!  my  daughter!  Oh!  wretched 
mother !  Thus  began  the  expiation.  Listen,  thou  newly  made 
one  of  us !" 

"  As  for  me,"  spoke  the  second,  "  I  lived  to  so  great  an  age 
that  I  thought  I  should  never  die  ;  and  I  had  sorrow  and  shame 
for  my  companions  night  and  day.  I  had  to  look  on  helpless 
while  my  husband  squandered  my  fortune  among  wantons — till 
love  was  turned  to  hate,  and  hate  was  changed  to  shame  when 
he  was  taken  out  to  die.  Thus  have  we  Avomen  wept  for  the 
wickedness  of  men." 

"  And  I,"  said  the  third,  "  married  one  who  lost  his  reason, 
and  raved  for  twelve  long  years.  And  so  my  life  was  ruined, 
save  that  my  children  were  left  to  me." 

"  Whose  lot  was  worse  than  mine  ?"  said  a  fourth.  "  For  my 
husband  became  a  miser.  He  was  mad  for  saving  money.  I 
had  to  pray  and  threaten  before  I  could  get  money  even 
for  my  children  ;  as  for  clothes,  I  had  to  make  them  myself. 
When  the  boys  grew  up  they  ran  away  and  left  the  miser's 
liome ;  all  but  one,  who  found  means  of  his  own  to  live  and 
clothe  himself  until  his  father  died.  My  only  daughter  left 
me.  No  one  would  stay  in  the  House.  Oh,  wretched  House ! 
Oh,  loveless  House!  Oh,  House  of  evil  fortune!"  She  wept 
and  wrunc:  her  hands. 


108  HEYONn    THE    DKEAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"  And  I,"  said  the  last,  "married  the  iniscr's  son.  Like  his 
great-groat-grandfather,  he  cared  nothing  how  lie  made  money> 
so  that  he  could  make  it.  Like  his  father,  lie  could  not  bear  to 
spend  it.  I  had  children,  six,  but  five  of  them  died,  and  when 
I  lay  a-dying,  my  son  whispered  that  he  could  not  endure  to 
live  in  the  house  without  me,  and  that  be  could  no  longer  en- 
dure being  called  the  money-lender's  son,  and  so,  I  think,  he, 
too,  ran  away." 

"One  of  us,"  said  the  first  —  "one  of  us!  With  all  these 
memories  to  fill  thy  mind  and  these  our  sorrows  to  share — 0 
fair,  new  daughter  of  the  House  !" 

"The  money  was  gained  with  dishonor,"  said  the  last,  "and 
has  grown  with  dishonor.  How  should  this  couple  who  inherit 
the  money  escape  the  curse  ?  They  cannot  take  one  without 
the  other." 

"Shame  and  dishonor!  Shame  and  dishonor!  These  things 
go  with  the  fortune  that  Calvert  Barley  founded  and  the  miser 
and  the  money-lender  increased." 

You  will  observe  in  the  report  of  this  vision,  first  of  all,  that 
Margaret  was  alone  in  the  house,  save  for  the  two  maids  in  the 
kitchen  below  ;  next,  that  she  knew  the  history  attaching  to 
every  portrait;  then,  that  the  vision  told  her  nothing  new;  and, 
lastly,  that  she  had  been  from  the  first  strangely  moved  by  the 
nursery  and  its  associations.  One  would  not  willingly  explain 
away,  or  suppress,  anything  supernatural — things  really  and  un- 
doubtedly supernatural  are,  despite  the  researches  of  the  Psy- 
chical Society,  only  too  rare.  At  the  same  time,  we  must  re- 
mark the  predisposition  of  this  young  wife  to  such  a  vision. 
It  was  a  warm  autumnal  morning;  her  imagination  was  excited 
by  the  sight  of  the  portraits  ;  she  sat  on  the  bed  ;  she  either 
fainted  or  she  fell  asleep ;  and  she  dreamed  this  vision  of  the 
mothers.  It  ceased  ;  the  unhappy  mothers  vanished.  Margaret 
sat  up,  looking  around  her,  listening  to  the  voices  which  died 
away  slowly  in  the  chambers  of  her  brain. 

She  was  married  to  a  scientific  husband  ;  she  was  accustomed 
to  hear  derision  poured  upon  all  spiritual  pretensions  and  man- 
ifestations and  revelations.  "It  was  a  dream,"  she  said  —  "a 
dream  caused  by  what  I  had  been  thinking  about."  Yet  she 
arose  with  a  sense  of  consolation.     "  Shame  and  dishonor,"  said 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS  109 

one  of  tlie  women,  <*  go  with  Calvert  Barley's  money."  There- 
fore no  harm  would  fall  upon  those  who  refused  part  or  share 
in  that  money.  It  was  the  belief  of  Lucian's  father.  No  harm 
would  come  to  her  or  hers  so  long  as  they  continued  that  great 
refusal.  "  It  is  a  dream,"  she  said,  wondering  why  she  came  to 
the  nursery,  and  remembering  no  more  after  she  had  played  that 
sacred  music  which  prepared  her  soul  for  the  dream  of  the 
mothers.  "  A  dream,"  she  repeated.  Yet — strange  that  one 
should,  in  open  daylight,  walk  in  sleep. 

She  descended  tbe  stairs,  feeling  a  little  dizzy  and  still  confused 
about  this  dream.  When  she  reached  the  first  floor  she  stopped, 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  turned  the  handle  and  went  into  the 
drawing-room.  Why,  there  was  nothing  at  all  in  the  pictures 
out  of  the  common  ;  poor  paintings,  for  the  most  jiart ;  stiff 
in  drawing,  and  conventional  ;  very  probably  good  likenesses. 
But  as  for  that  feeling  of  being  watched  by  them,  or  of  any  in- 
telligence in  them,  or  of  listening  by  them,  or  anything  in  the 
least  unusual — it  was  absurd.  "  I  have  been  dreaming,"  said 
Margaret. 

She  took  a  chair  in  one  of  the  windows  and  sat  down,  taking 
a  book  of  verse  to  read.  The  poetry  did  not  appeal  to  her 
this  morning;  she  laid  the  book  aside;  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

At  one  o'clock  she  awoke  ;  she  sat  up  with  a  start ;  she  looked 
round,  expecting  the  mothers  to  be  surrounding  her  chair. 
There  was  nothing;  the  mothers  were  on  the  wall,  but  they  were 
evidently  thinking  of  themselves.  "  It  was  a  dream,"  she  said. 
"But  how  clear  and  vivid  !  And,  now,  I  know  thera  every  one. 
*One  of  us — one  with  us — to  share  our  sorrows!'  Oh,  hapless 
House  !  There  may  be  sorrows  for  me,  and  there  will  be  ;  but 
not  the  shame  and  dishonor  that  go  with  all  this  money." 

"Lucian,"  she  said  in  the  evening,  "I  must  tell  you  what  a 
strange  thing  happened  to  me  this  morning." 

"You  have  something  on  your  mind,  dear.  Tell  me,  if  it 
will  relieve  you." 

"  I  will  not  tell  you  quite  all.  I  must  keep  something  back, 
because  even  to  you,  dear,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not  tell  every- 
thing— just  yet." 


110  HEVOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"Tell  nic  just  what  you  please." 

She  was  ashamed  to  tell  hiin  of  the  strange  terror  which 
seized  her  in  the  drawing-room ;  she  was  ashamed  to  tell  him 
of  the  hymn  she  played  for  strength  against  these  airy  terrors ; 
she  was  ashamed  to  tell  him  that  she  could  not  remember  how 
she  got  up-stairs  to  the  nursery. 

"  I  went  there,"  she  said,  "  and  I  sat  upon  the  bed,  and  be- 
gan to  think  of  the  children  and  the  poor  mothers.  And — I 
don't  know — perhaps  it  was  rather  a  close  morning,  and  the 
window  was  shut.  I  am  afraid  I  fainted,  for  I  fell  back,  and 
when  I  was  recovered  I  was  lying  on  the  bed." 

"  Fainted  ?     My  dear  child  !" 

"  And  I  had  a  most  curious  dream.  Well,  the  dream  was  in 
my  head  before  I  went  off.  I  dreamed  that  round  the  bed 
stood  all  the  mothers  of  the  House — those  unhappy  women 
whose  portraits  are  up-stairs,  and  they  welcomed  me  as  one  of 
themselves,  and  lamented  their  unhappy  fate,  and  they  said 
that  shame  and  dishonor  go  with  the  money  that  Calvert  Burley 
began  to  save." 

"  A  strange  dream,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband.  "  Truly  a 
strange  dream." 

"  Oh,  it  was  only  a  dream,  Lucian,"  she  concluded.  "  Oh,  I 
do  not  need  to  be  told  that.  But  it  has  brought  home  to 
me  so  vividly  the  sorrows  of  these  poor  women.  Oh  !  how 
they  suffered,  one  after  the  other !  If  men  only  knew  the 
sufferings  their  vices  bring  upon  women,  I  think  half  the 
wickedness  of  the  world  would  cease.  One  after  the  other 
— yes — I  know  what  you  would  say — their  husbands  sinned 
and  caused  their  sorrows.  Yet  your  father  thought  so — 
as  1  think.  Dishonor  and  shame  go  with  Calvert  Burley's 
money." 

Lucian  laughed,  but  with  grave  eyes.  "  My  dear,"  he  said, 
"  it  is  strange  for  you  to  have  visions.  But  you  are  too  much 
alone.  We  must  get  your  sister  to  come  here  for  a  spell  when 
she  returns  home.  It  is  a  very  quiet  house,  and  you  are  not 
accustomed  to  be  so  much  alone.  One  easily  gets  nervous  in 
such  a  house.  If  I  were  you,  dear,  I  would  not  spend  too 
much  time  in  that  nursery.  Let  mo  clear  it  all  out  and  make  it 
a  lumber-room." 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    MOTHERS  Hi 

"  No,  no.  It  is  my  room,  Lucian.  I  will  not  have  it  touched. 
Besides,  I  haven't  half  explored  the  cupboard  yet." 

All  that  evening  Lucian  watched  her  furtively.  She  sat  with 
him  in  his  study.  And  when  she  said  it  was  time  to  go  up- 
stairs, he  did  not  remain  for  a  pipe  by  himself,  but  rose  and 
went  up  with  her.  For  it  was  not  Margaret's  custom  to  grow 
faint  and  to  see  visions. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
A    VISIT    TO    THE    TREASURY 

"  I  SUPPOSE  we  are  not  forwarded  any,  Ella  dear  ?"  Aunt 
Lucinda  looked  up  with  a  forced  smile  as  her  niece  came  in. 

"  Not  a  bit."  Ella  threw  her  hat  upon  the  table  and  pulled 
off  lier  jacket.  The  girl  was  changed  already.  The  face, 
which  was  so  bright  and  eager  when  first  she  resolved  on 
bringing  over  her  claim  in  person,  was  now  pale  and  set  as 
with  endurance  and  resolution.  It  was  a  fighting  face.  You 
may  often  see  this  face  among  the  women  of  the  good  old 
stock,  which  is  said  to  be  fast  dying  out  in  New  England ;  it 
means  the  iron  resolution  which  they  inherit  from  the  Puritan 
Pilgrims.  I  should  be  rather  afraid  to  confront  such  a  face  if 
I  had  a  weak  cause  or  a  wrong  cause.  This  face  meant  per- 
severance to  the  end.     It  also  meant  anxiety. 

"  We  are  not  advanced  a  bit,"  she  repeated. 

''  Were  they  civil  ?" 

"  Oh,  they  are  civil  enough,  now.  Quite  polite,  in  fact.  I 
don't  think  they  will  ask  me  any  more  to  sit  on  the  door- 
step and  wait.  But  it's  no  use  being  polite,  as  I  told  them, 
if  we  don't  get  on.  It's  always  will  I  wait?  Will  I  have 
patience?  Will  I  consider  that  this  is  a  very  important  busi- 
ness? The  lawyers  have  all  the  claims  sent  in  as  yet.  All 
must  be  considered.  Well,  these  may  be  considered ;  but 
how  many  are  from  nephews  and  nieces?  Then  they  say 
that  there  may  be  other  nephews  and  nieces  —  why  don't 
they  come  forward,  then  ?  Then  they  say  that  there  was  a 
son.  They  must  get  proof  that  the  son  is  dead,  and  further 
proof  that  he  left  no  children,  or  that  these  children  are  dead. 
How  long  do  they  expect  to  keep  me  waiting?  They  don't 
know.  It  is  impossible  to  say.  A  great  deal  depends  upon 
the  proof  about  the  son.     It  may  be  a  long  time." 


A    VISIT    TO    THE    TREASURY  113 

"  Oh,  Ella,  what  do  they  call  long  ?     Is  it  weeks  or  months  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Auntie  ;  I  don't  know  " — she  sat  down  wearily. 

"  My  dear,  the  suspense  is  killing  me." 

"  Auntie,  you  look  frightened  always.  Why  does  the  claim 
frighten  you  ?     Is  it  that  the  fortune  is  so  huge  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  dear,  I  try  not  to  think  about  the  money  ; 
but  I  must.  The  gracious  Lord  knows,  Ella,  that  I  do  not 
desire  it.  I  desire  only  that  the  thing  may  be  settled  one 
way  or  the  other.  I  wish  we  were  back  in  Tewksbury  again, 
and  all  was  as  it  used  to  be — and  I  was  arranging  for  the 
reading  of  the  Literary  Society's  papers." 

"  Things  can't  ever  go  back,  Auntie.  We've  got,  somehow, 
to  see  this  through." 

"  And  how  are  we  to  live,  dear,  until  things  are  settled  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Auntie.  I'm  thinking  all  day  and  all  night. 
I  don't  know  what  we  are  to  do."  vShe  sat  down  and  folded 
her  hands.  "  Let  us  see — we  say  the  same  thing  every  day.  .  .  . 
Let  us  see  again."  She  took  her  purse  from  her  pocket  and 
poured  out  the  contents.  "  We've  spent  all  the  money  we 
brought  for  our  expenses  here ;  and  we've  spent  most  of  the 
money  for  our  passage  home.  Auntie,  we've  got  exactly  three 
pounds  ten  shillings  and  sixpence  —  about  seventeen  dollars. 
Our  rent  is  ten  shillings  a  week ;  say  that  we  have  four  weeks' 
rent  in  hand,  that  leaves  us  one  pound  two  shillings  and  six- 
pence— about  five  dollars  and  a  half — for  washing  and  for  food. 
Can  we  make  it  last  for  three  weeks  ?  Three  weeks  more — and 
then?  My  dear  Auntie,  I  don't  believe  that  they  mean  to  settle 
this  case  in  three  weeks,  or  in  three  months — or,  perhaps,  in 
three  years." 

"  And  after  three  weeks,  dear  ?" 

"  We  must  wait  in  patience  if  it's  thirty  years.  For  what- 
ever happens,  we  shall  not  withdraw  our  claim.  They  may  try 
to  drive  us  back  to  our  own  country  ;  but  no — we  will  wait." 

"  But  how  to  live,  dear  ?" 

'•  I  don't  know  yet.  They  must  give  in  sooner  or  later, 
Auntie  ;  it  is  a  certainty." 

"Suppose  we  were  to  go  home  again,  dear,  and  wait  there," 
.said  Aunt  Lucinda,  timidly.  "  I  should  like  to  sec  the  ohl 
street  aixain." 


114  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  We  can't,  my  dear.  We've  got  no  money  to  take  us  back, 
not  even  if  we  went  as  steerage  passengers.  We  must  stay  here 
somehow.  Besides,  if  we  went  back,  how  should  we  ever  pay 
back  the  money  you  borrowed  ?  We  should  have  to  sell  the  old 
house,  and  how  long  should  I  have  to  wait  before  I  got  another 
situation  ?  There  arc  twenty  girls  in  Tewksbury  wanting  places 
to  every  place  there  is  for  them." 

"  Cut,  my  child,  how  are  we  to  live  ?" 

"1  don't  know  yet.  We've  got  three  weeks  to  find  out. 
Well" — she  jumped  up — "  I  must  find  out  something.  Don't 
be  afraid.  Auntie.  There's  the  American  Minister  here ;  I  will 
go  and  ask  him  to  get  me  some  work.  Perliaps  they  want  a 
girl  clerk  at  his  place.  Or,  there's  the  American  Consul.  I  will 
go  there  and  ask  for  advice.  We  don't  want  to  borrow  money ; 
we  want  a  little  work  that  will  keep  us  going,  in  ever  so  poor  a 
way.  They  say  it  is  so  hard  for  a  woman  to  get  work  in  this 
city.  But  wc  shall  see.  I  will  write  to  the  Queen  herself  and 
tell  her  our  case.  Perhaps  she  wants  a  short-hand  girl  clerk ; 
or  a  cashier;  or  a  type-writer — who  knows?  I  suppose  she 
wouldn't  bear  malice  because  we  want  to  take  this  money  ?  They 
say  at  the  Treasury  that  she  won't  have  it,  in  any  case.  I  don't 
know  why  they  say  so.  The  papers  all  declared  that  the  estate 
would  go  to  the  Crown.  You  shall  see.  Auntie  ;  I  loill  get  some- 
thing somehow." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Lucinda,  feebly,  "you  are  very 
brave,  but  you  can't  make  people  find  you  work  or  lend  you 
money.  Oh !  my  dear,  you  are  young  and  clever,  but  I  know 
more  than  you.  Money  it  is  that  makes  people  hard,  and  cruel, 
and  unjust.  They  will  be  hard  and  unjust  to  you  here  just  as 
much  as  at  home.  This  dreadful  money !  We  were  happier 
when  we  wanted  none.  At  Tewksbury  we  tauglit  ourselves  to 
despise  money.  Remem])cr  that  we  put  up  a  petition  and  a 
thanksgiving  every  morning  against  the  prevalent  and  sinful 
greed  of  money." 

"  Yes,  dear,  we  did.  But  you  must  remember  that  wc  have 
not  sought  this  fortune  nor  asked  for  it.  The  gift  came  to  us. 
You  are  this  dead  man's  niece;  I  am  his  grandniece;  it  is  our 
bounden  duty  to  take  what  is  given,  and  to  show  the  world  how 
such  a  aift  mav  be  used  aright.     That  is  what  it  is  meant  for. 


d      .  n 


A    VISIT    TO    THE    TREASURY  115 

If  we'd  prayed  for  it  night  and  day  we  should  not  have  got  it. 
A  milhonaire  is  put  upon  a  pillar,  like  a  king,  for  the  world  to 
watch.  Everything  that  he  does  Is  watched  and  recorded.  In 
a  few  weeks  or  months,  you  and  I,  simple  as  we  are,  will  be  the 
two  women  in  the  world  the  most  talked  about — and  it  is  laid 
upon  us  to  show  the  world  how  so  great  a  gift  should  be  admin- 
istered." 

"  Well,  dear,  it  will  be  a  most  awful  responsibility — I  dare  not 
think  of  it.    The  mere  thought  of  millions  makes  my  head  dizzy." 

"  As  for  that,  you  must  not  let  yourself  think  of  the  figures. 
They  are  bewildering;  and  you  will  gradually,  without  hurting 
yourself  at  all,  come  to  understand  that  whatever  you  want  to 
have,  you  can  have.  Don't  be  afraid.  Auntie — you  will  want 
and  do  nothing  but  what  is  good." 

"I  will  try,  my  dear.  Meantime — after  the  next  three  weeks 
— how  shall  we  live  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  am  thinking  and  thinking — and,  so  far, 
nothing  has  come  of  it.  Fin  not  afraid,  but  I  am  a  little 
anxious.  We  are  so  much  alone  ;  we  know  nobody ;  if  we  go 
to  a  lawyer  we  shall  have  to  pay  him.  If  we  could  go  and  con- 
sult a  minister !  There  is  the  great  stony  church  out  there  in 
the  square  ;  I  have  thought  of  going  to  see  the  pastor,  but  then 
he's  Episcopal,  and  we  are  Methodists.  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Glad- 
.  stone — I  didn't  tell  you.  Auntie,  because  you  might  think  it  was 
mixing  ourselves  up  in  politics,  and  an  American  girl  over  here 
oughtn't  to  take  a  side.  He  answered  very  kindly — says  lie 
can't  help.  Well — he's  too  busy,  I  suppose.  As  for  his  not 
being  able  to  help,  I  wonder  if  there's  any  single  thing  in  the 
world  that  old  man  can't  make  the  people  here  believe  and  do." 

"I  don't  know,  dear;  I  am  beginning  to  feel — " 

"  No,  don't  say  that.  Auntie  dear,"  the  girl  interrupted, 
quickly,  "anything  but  that.  It's  only  waiting  for  a  little 
while — a  week  or  two — a  year  or  two.  Only  patience  for  a 
bit.  These  solicitors  !  I  asked  for  their  names,  meaning  to  go 
and  sit  upon  their  door-steps  until  they  attend  to  me,  as  I 
threatened  to  do  at  the  Treasury." 

"  But,  Ella,  we  must  remember  the  other  claimants.  There 
may  be  some  with  quite  as  good  case,  until  they  come  to  ours. 
We  must  take  our  turn,  after  all." 


116  HEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"I'm  SO  restless  about  it;  I  can't  sleep  for  thinking  of  it ;  T 
can't  sit  still.  Yesterday,  in  church,  I  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  go  out,  because  my  thoughts  wouldn't  let  me  sit  still.  1 
can't  sit  here  in  this  room  ;  it  is  too  small.  I  am  choked. 
Auntie,  put  on  your  bonnet,  and,  for  goodness'  sake,  let  us  go 
out  and  walk  up  and  down." 

Aunt  Lucinda  obeyed ;  she  always  obeyed.  She  belonged 
to  that  class  of  women  who  arc  born  to  obey.  She  meekly 
rose,  and  went  to  her  room  for  her  bonnet. 

The  girl's  face  lost  all  courage  when  she  was  alone.  She 
waved  her  arms  in  a  kind  of  agony.  "  Oh  !"  she  cried.  "  Hun- 
dreds of  claimants  !  Hundreds  !  and  more  coming  in  every  day  ! 
They  will  not  decide  until  they  have  received  and  considered 
all.  And  it  may  be  years,  they  told  me — long  years  of  expec- 
tation.    Oh  !    What  shall  we  do?     What  shall  we  do?" 

Then  her  aunt  returned  with  red  eyes.  The  two  hypocrites 
smiled  at  each  other  and  went  down  the  stairs,  and  so  into  the 
square,  called  after  an  unknown  Smith — perhaps  allegorically 
as  connecting  the  church,  which  covers  three -fourths  of  the 
space,  with  the  work  of  men's  hands.  The  whole  of  the  square 
was  formerly  the  burial-ground  of  the  church,  so  that  these 
ladies  were  unconsciously  walking  over  the  dust  of  their  fore- 
fathers— parishioners  since  the  parish  was  first  begun. 

They  walked  nearly  round  the  square,  their  thoughts  far 
away.  Then  Klla  turned  into  a  street,  for  no  reason,  her  aunt 
following  her;  and  in  two  or  three  minutes  they  found  them- 
selves in  an  unexpected  Place — a  continental  Place — which 
brouglit  their  thoughts  back  to  Westminster.  So  long  as  you 
walk  along  streets  and  houses  that  you  expect,  and  sec  the 
sights  and  hear  the  sounds  to  which  you  arc  accustomed,  you 
can  think  as  well  and  let  your  tlinughts  go  roaming  as  far  as  if 
you  were  alone  in  the  fields.  \\'hen  you  see  and  hear  the  un- 
expected you  must  leave  off  thinking.  Ella  looked  round  her, 
awakened  by  the  unexpected.  For  she  stood  suddenly  in  the 
most  (juict  and  peaceful  spot  of  all  London.  Houses  of  the 
early  eighteenth  century,  with  porches,  and  pillars,  and  flat 
facades,  stand  round  this  place,  houses  built  for  the  comfort 
that  our  forefathers  placed  so  far  above  artistic  show  and 
aesthetic  display.     Many  generations  of  peace   and  home   lent 


A    VISIT    TO    THE    TREASURY  117 

to  this  place  the  very  atmosphere  of  sechision.  No  one  was 
walking  in  it ;  the  houses  and  the  street  lay  in  sunshine — each 
home  a  hermitage.  Perhaps  in  the  month  of  September  the 
people  are  away,  but  even  in  merry  May  there  can  never  be  the 
noise  of  the  street. 

"  There's  a  street  in  Albany,"  said  Aunt  Lucinda,  "  which 
looks  like  this.     Ah  !  if  only  we  were  once  more  safe — " 

"Don't,  Auntie.  Oh,  we  shall  pull  through,  somehow.  I've 
got  my  watch  still,  and  you've  got  your  ring.  We  will  go  to  a 
money-lender  and  borrow.  Auntie,"  struck  with  a  sudden 
thought,  "  your  uncle,  the  rich  man  who  died,  he  was  a  money- 
lender; he  lived  somewhere  here — I  suppose  the  business  is 
still  carried  on.  Let  us  go  there.  His  successor  might  lend  us 
some  money  on  the  security  of  our  claim — we  will  give  him 
any  interest  he  wants.  It  is  a  chance — an  inspiration,  per- 
haps."    It  was;  but  not  in  the  sense  she  meant. 

"Where  was  the  house?" 

"  It  was  a  place  called  Great  College  Street,  Westminster. 
The  number  was  77,  I  think." 

They  asked  a  postman.  The  street  was  close  by — first  turn 
to  the  right  and  straight  on.  They  followed  the  direction,  and 
speedily  stood  in  the  street  beside  the  old  gray  wall  and  before 
the  door  numbered  77. 

"  It  can't  be  the  house,"  said  Aunt  Lucinda.  "  A  miser  and 
a  money-lender  couldn't  live  in  such  a  lovely  house ;  and  sec, 
— '  Lucian  Calvert,  M.I).'  on  the  plate.  It  is  a  doctor's  house; 
Ella,  you  mustn't." 

"I  must.  I  am  desperate.  I  su[)pose  the  house  has  bci'n  done 
up  fresh,  painted  and  everything,  since  the  old  man  died.  It 
doesn't  look  like  a  miser's  house.  But  I  don't  care,  I  will  ask." 
She  rang  the  bell.  The  question  she  wanted  to  put  was  deli- 
cate. Was  Dr.  Calvert  the  successor  of  tlic  late  Mr.  r>urlev,  in 
the  money-lending  business?  When  the  door  was  opciii'd  liy 
the  neat  and  well-dressed  house-maid,  the  girl  found  herself  un- 
able to  put  that  question.  She  had  expected  the  physician  him- 
self. She  hesitated,  therefore,  and  stammered,  and  lliially  aske<l 
if  "  Dr.  Calvert  was  within." 

lie  was  not.  If  the  ladies  wished  to  eonsuM  Iiini  lie  would 
be  at  home  in  the  afternoon. 


118  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"Wc  do  not  wish  to  consult  him  professionally,"  said  the 
claimant.     "  That  is — " 

"  Mrs.  Calvert  is  at  home,"  the  maid  suggested. 

"  That  will  be  very  much  better.  Would  Mrs.  Calvert  sec 
us  ?     No  ;  she  docs  not  know  our  names." 

Mrs.  Calvert  would  see  them.  They  were  shown  into  the 
dining-room,  where  they  found  a  lady  quite  young,  apparently 
newly  married. 

"  You  do  not  know  us  at  all,"  said  Ella,  stepping  to  the  front. 
"  My  aunt's  name  is  Lucinda  Burley,  and  I  am  Ella  Burley,  and 
we  arc  Americans,  and  claimants  for  the  Burley  estate." 

"  And  you  wish  to  sec  the  house  where  Mr.  Burley  lived  and 
died?" 

"  N — no — that  is,  we  should  like  to  see  the  house,  but  wc 
came  on  other  business." 

"You  had  bettor  tell  this  lady  the  whole  truth,  my  dear," 
said  Aunt  Lucinda,  with  the  sagacity  of  age. 

"  Then  it  is  this  way.     My  great-uncle — " 

"You  are  the  granddaughter  of  James  Calvert  Burley  ?" 

"  You  know  about  the  family,  then?  Your  name  is  Calvert? 
You  are  a  cousin  ?" 

"We  are  not  claimants,"  sail  Margaret.  "I  know  that 
James  Burley  went  to  America.     That  is  all." 

"  Wc  thought  that  our  claim  would  be  acknowledged  in  a 
day  or  two.  We  have  spent  most  of  our  money,  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  the  money-lending  business  might  be  still  carried  on 
somewliere — perhaps  here — but  I  see  I  was  mistaken  ;  and  that, 
if  wc  could  learn  where  the  office  is,  wc  might  try  to  Ixirrow 
money  on  the  security  of  our  claim." 

"The  money-lending  was  discontinued  long  before  Mr.  Bur- 
Icy  died.     My  liusband  is  a  ])liysician." 

"  Oh  !  then  that  idea  lias  fallen  through.  Well,  Mrs.  Calvert, 
wc  are  sorry  to  disturb  you,  and  very  much  obliged  to  you.  1 
hope  you  won't  be  offended  because  we  asked." 

She  got  up  to  go. 

"I  am  not  offended  at  all;  I  am  interested  in  your  case. 
Would  you  like  to  see  the  house  where  your  grandfather  was 
born?" 

"If   it  will   not  trouble  you  too  much,"  said  Aunt   Lucinda. 


A    VISIT    TO    THE    TREASURY  119 

"  My  father  often  spoke  to  me  about  this  liouse  and  the  old  days. 
His  father  was  a  dreadful  miser." 

"I  perceive  that  you  know  something  of  the  family  history. 
I  suppose  you  have  brought  over  proofs  of  your  descent,  and — 
and — everything  that  will  be  required." 

"  Plenty  of  proof,"  said  Ella,  stoutly,  "  all  the  proofs  that  can 
be  asked  for." 

Margaret  looked  doubtful.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  Then 
she  rose,  and  without  further  question  led  the  way. 

"Come  with  me,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  show  you  the  house. 
My  husband  is  connected  with  the  family.  We  are  cousins,  in 
fact — distant  cousins.  We  took  it  over  with  all  the  furniture, 
only  we  have  painted  and  decorated  the  place.  James,  through 
whom  you  claim,  was  the  youngest  son.  He  was  born  in  1804." 
"  We  do  not  know  much  about  our  relations — not  even  how 
many  brothers  he  had." 

"  Two  brothers  came  between  John,  the  man  who  died  the 
other  day,  and  your  grandfather.  So  far  as  I  know,  neither  of 
these  two  brothers,  through  heirs,  has  yet  put  in  a  claim.  You 
are  the  first  claimants  who  have  called  here.  Come  up-stairs, 
and  you  shall  see  the  family  portraits." 

She  led  them  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the  heads  of  tliis 
remarkable  family  adorned  the  walls. 

"  Father  came  over  to  America  in  the  year  1830,  with  mother," 
Aunt  Lucinda  explained,  her  pale  cheeks  turning  rosy  red,  no 
doubt  with  excitement.  "  My  brother  was  born  in  1831,  and  I 
was  born  in  1832.  I  am  sixty-one  years  of  age.  This  child  was 
born  in  1873,  and  my  brother  died  in  1880.  Father  and  son 
were  lawyers.  We've  got  the  certificates  of  baptism  and  every- 
thing, and  they've  gone  into  the  Treasury." 

"They  will  try  to  cheat  us  out  of  our  rights,  if  they  can,"  said 
Ella,  with  determination.  "But  they've  got  an  American  girl  to 
deal  with.  ' 

She  looked  round  the  room.  "That's  like  father,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  original  Calvert.  "  lie  could  look  just  as  deter- 
mined as  that — yon  remember,  Auntie  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  brother  had  that  look  sometimes,  thongh  lie  was 
unlucky  in  money." 

"And  yon  are  like  this  lady  ;  who  was  this,  Mrs.  Calvert?" 


120  UEYONU  THE  DKEAMS  OF  AVAKICE 

"That  is  Lucimla — wife  of  John  Biirley,  the  celebrated  iniser. 
She  is  your  gratidniothcr,  Miss  Burley.  There  is  a  strong  like- 
ness, but  I  hope  you  will  be  more  happy  than  this  poor  creature." 

They  looked  about  thcni  with  curiosity.  "  Oh  !"  cried  Ella. 
"  To  think  that  we  are  gazing  upon  our  own  people !  Don't 
tell  us,  Mrs.  Calvert,  which  is  grandfather;  Auntie,  find  him  on 
the  wall.  What  lovely  pictures  !  what  wigs  and  what  head- 
dresses !    I  always  thought  that  we  belonged  to  a  grand  family." 

"  I  will  tell  you  directly  something  about  the  family  grandeur. 
Miss  Burley,  do  you  think  you  can  find  your  father's  portrait 
among  them  ?" 

The  historian  is  naturally  gratified  at  being  able  to  state  that 
Aunt  Lucinda  behaved  exactly  like  Joan  of  Arc  in  a  somewhat 
similar  historical  situation.  She  looked  once  round  the  room, 
and  placed  her  hand  upon  a  picture.  "  This  is  my  father,"  she 
said,  "though  I  remember  him  only  as  a  middle-aged  and  elder- 
ly man." 

"  You  arc  quite  right.  That  is  James  Calvert  Burley.  His 
granddaughter  is  like  him — and  like  all  the  Burlcys.  Theirs  is 
a  strong  type,  which  repeats  itself  every  generation  ;  and  now, 
if  you  will  sit  down,  I  will  tell  yon  something  about  your  family 
history." 

They  spent  an  hour  and  more  in  that  portrait-gallery,  listening 
breathlessly  to  the  story  of  the  family  grandeur.  Margaret,  with 
intention,  em[)hasized  the  misfortunes  that  followed  them  all, 
from  father  to  son.  She  said  nothing  about  the  curse  wliicli  her 
husband's  father  believed  to  cling  to  the  possession  of  the  fort- 
une. She  left  them  to  make  out  for  themselves,  if  they  chose, 
a  theory  on  the  subject.  They  did  not  choose ;  in  fact,  they 
did  not  connect  the  misfortunes  with  the  money,  but  with  the 
extraordinary  wickedness  of  the  men.  They  were  like  Lucian 
in  this  respect.  A  family  curse,  yon  see,  is  nut  a  thing  that  can 
be  tolerated  under  a  democratic  form  of  government. 

They  were  impressed.  For  the  first  time  they  reali/.cd  the 
meaning  of  a  family.  It  is  a  dreadful  loss,  which  we  of  the 
English-speaking  race  inflict  upon  ourselves,  that  we  do  not 
preserve  the  family  liistory.  Through  the  gutter,  in  the  mire, 
among  criminals,  in  degradations  even,  the  family  history  ought 
to  be  followed  and  j)reserved.     We  should  guard  the  records  of 


A    VISIT    TO    THE    TREASURY  131 

the  past ;  we  should  preserve  the  traditions.  Ella,  the  Ameri- 
can, who  had  never  thought  of  the  past  in  connection  with  her- 
self, listened  with  rapt  eyes  while  Margaret  unfolded  the  history 
of  the  eighteenth  century  in  its  relations  to  herself. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  at  last,  "it  is  terrible  !  Yet — Auntie — don't 
you  feel  taller  for  belonging  to  such  a  family  ?" 

"The  extreme  wickedness  of  man,"  sighed  Aunt  Lucinda,  "in 
the  effete  European  states  is  awful  to  contemplate.  In  Tewksbury 
there  couldn't  ever  be  such  a  record.  The  ladies  wouldn't  allow  it." 

"  Come  up-stairs,"  said  Margaret.  "  I  have  still  something 
else  to  show  you.  This  is  the  portrait-gallery  of  them  all ;  and 
here  you  have  heard  the  history  of  the  men.  Up-stairs  you 
shall  see  the  rooms  of  the  women — the  unfortunate  women — 
your  great-grandmothers,  who  had  to  endure  the  consequences 
of  the  men's  wickedness."  She  showed  them  the  nursery,  which 
had  been  left  just  as  she  found  it:  the  wooden  cradle,  the  bed, 
the  cupboard,  the  infants'  clothes,  the  dolls  and  toys.  She  gave 
them  each  a  doll  from  the  family  treasures.  "  Do  these  things," 
she  asked,  "  make  you  feel  that  you  really  do  belong  to  the 
House  ?  Here  are  the  very  dolls  that  the  little  girls  of  the  fam- 
ily played  with.  It  must  have  been  before  the  miser's  time,  be- 
cause he  would  certainly  never  allow  such  a  waste  of  money  as 
the  purchasing  of  dolls." 

They  went  down-stairs  again. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Ella,  in  the  hall,  "  how  can  we  thank  you  enough  ?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  ;  Margaret  took  it  and  held  it. 

"  You  have  no  friends  in  England,"  she  said ;  "  make  me,  if 
you  will,  your  friend.  Let  me  call  upon  you.  I  have  plenty  of 
time  on  my  hands,  and  I  may,  perhaps,  be  able  to  advise  and 
help."  The  American  girl  hesitated.  She  was  proud,  and  she 
was  going  to  become  destitute.  "  I  believe  that  I  know  all 
about  you,"  said  Margaret.  "  You  have  betrayed  yourself.  You 
seem  to  me  to  want  advice." 

"  We  certainly  do." 

"Then — if  you  think  you  can  trust  me — make  me  your  friend." 

"  But  you  must  know  more  about  us,"  cried  Ella,  persuaded 
into  confidence.  "  We  are  desperately  poor  ;  we  live  in  quite 
cheap  lodgings  close  by  ;  we  have  spent  nearly  all  our  money  ; 
wc  want  all  the  advice  we  can  get." 

G 


122  DKYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  I  will  call  upon  you,"  said  Margaret,  witli  her  grave  smile. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  so  kind — and  you  have  got  such  a  good  face ! 
But  you  mustn't  think  we  are  grand  people."  Ella  was  very 
anxious  on  this  point.  "At  home,  Auntie  has  got  the  house  we 
live  in  for  her  own;  and  I've  got  —  that  is,  I  had — a  situation 
as  cashier  in  a  store,  at  live  dollars  a  week.  And  so  wc  got 
along  somehow,  and  we  were  quite  contented,  until  the  papers 
began  to  ring  with  this  fortune  wanting  an  heir — and  we've  given 
up  everything,  of  course,  for  this  claim  —  and  —  and  —  now  wc 
begin  to  want  advice  very  badly." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Margaret,  gravely  ;  "  only,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  do  not  build  upon  your  claim.  Do  not  count  upon  it — 
oh !  I  implore  you,  do  not !  Try  to  go  on  as  if  you  had  no 
claim.  There  will  be  long  delays ;  there  may  be  dreadful  dis- 
appointments ;  there  may  be  terrible  surprises." 

Aunt  Lucinda  began  to  tremble  and  to  shake.  It  was  her 
strange  wa}',  from  time  to  time.  "Terrible  surprises?"  she  re- 
peated. "  Oh  !  what  kind  of  surprises  ?  Who  can  tell  what  the 
future  may  bring  forth  ?" 

"  It  must  be  ours,"  said  Ella,  lightly  ;  "  but  it  is  kind  of  you 
to  warn  us.  We  will  not  think  about  it  more  than  wc  can  help. 
And,  oh  1  I  am  so  thankful  and  happy  !  For  we  have  made  a 
friend  in  this  horrible,  heartless  place.  Come  some — come  to- 
day— or  to-morrow — come  to  tea  with  us.  Auntie,  dear,  leave 
off  looking  so  frightened,  or  you'll  drop  your  grandmother's 
doll.  I  feel  as  if  everything  was  fixed  up  now.  Good-bye,  Mrs. 
Calvert."  She  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  threw  her  arms  round 
her  new  friend  and  kissed  her.  "  Wc  are  cousins,  are  wc  not  ? 
And  you  arc  not  a  claimant,  and  we  can  be  friends." 

"  Ought  I  to  have  told  them,  Lucian  ?  They  do  not  know 
the  truth.  They  have  no  claim,  and  they  don't  know,  cl(;arly, 
the  horrid  truth,  and  they  look  as  if  they  would  sink  into  the 
earth  with  shame  if  they  did  know." 

"  Don't  tell  them,  dear.  Do  what  you  can  for  them,  but  don't 
tell  thcin  ;  there  is  no  reason  whatever  for  telling  them.  And 
they  never  will  know.  Because,  you  see,  before  the  Treasury 
decide  between  the  claimants,  I  must  step  forward  and  forbid 
the  banns  of  marriage  between  this  estate  of  mine  which  I  am 
not  to  touch  and  any  of  my  cousins." 


CHAPTER    XV 
HUNDREDS    OF    CLAIMANTS 

"  Hundreds  of  claimants,"  said  the  people  at  the  Treasury. 

There  were  hundreds.  New  claims  were  sent  in  every  day. 
The  name  of  Burley  is  not  one  of  the  most  common,  but  a  good 
many  people  rejoice  in  it.  Everybody  who  answered  to  that 
name,  or  had  a  Burley  among  his  ancestors,  made  haste  to  send 
in  his  claim.  One  man  wrote  that  his  grandmotlier's  name  was 
Burley,  and  invited  the  Treasury  to  send  him  the  estates ;  an- 
other wrote  that  from  information  received  privately  he  knew 
that,  early  in  the  century,  his  great-grandfather  had  married  a 
Burley — the  Treasury  could  easily  prove  the  fact ;  a  lady  wrote 
to  say  that  she  had  married  a  Burley,  now  dead,  and  he  had  al- 
ways assured  her  that  he  was  of  good  family — the  fortune  could 
be  sent  to  her  lodgings ;  another  lady  sent  up  a  certificate  of 
good  character  from  the  vicar  of  the  parish,  and  explained  that 
her  father's  name  was  Burley — she  would  call  for  the  money 
on  the  following  Monday,  and  would  be  glad  of  an  advance  for 
her  railway  fare  ;  solicitors  by  the  hundred  wrote  that  they  were 
instructed  by  their  clients  to  forward  their  names  as  claimants 
— the  case  would  follow  as  soon  as  completed ;  another  wrote 
from  his  establishment  in  the  City  Road,  to  say  that  his  name, 
which  was  Burley,  proved  his  right  to  the  estates,  and  "speedy 
settlement  of  same  "  would  oblige ;  another,  who  had  an  imagi- 
nation, sent  up  a  carefully  prepared  work  of  fiction,  containing 
the  history  of  his  connection  with  the  Westminster  branch,  hop- 
ing that  his  allegations  would  be  accepted  ;  another  Burley,  who 
understood  more  about  the  necesvsities  of  the  case,  sent  up  an 
historical  essay  on  the  family  with  a  genealogy,  which  looked 
very  pretty.  He  hoped  that  the  weak  point — the  connection — 
would  not  be  too  closely  investigated. 


124  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

And  from  every  country  of  Europe,  America,  from  India,  from 
China,  from  Australia,  from  every  part  of  the  known  and  hab- 
itable world,  letters,  demands,  claims,  threats,  entreaties,  ques- 
tions, began  to  pour  in.  For  we  never  know — nor  can  we  know, 
until  we  die  intestate,  leaving  large  possessions  —  how  many 
cousins  we  have  in  the  world.  Cousins  of  every  remove,  but 
mostly  removed  a  good  way,  poured  in.  Next — for  the  law  of 
descent  is  but  imperfectly  understood,  owing  to  the  prejudice 
which  prevails,  and  the  favoritism  shown  in  the  making  of  wills 
— the  families  and  descendants  of  the  families  which  intermar- 
ried with  Burleys  began  also  to  send  in  their  Tianies  and  their 
descents. 

The  Burley  millions  became  the  stock  subject  for  the  para- 
graphist;  when  all  other  material  failed,  he  would  always  invent 
something  about  them.  "  Sixty-five  more  claimants  sent  in  their 
papers  last  Saturday ;  the  total  number  is  now  said  to  be  nine 
hundred  and  eighty-nine."  Or,  again,  "  It  is  reported  on  good 
authority  that  a  granddaughter  of  the  deceased  gentleman  has 
been  discovered  in  a  laundry  not  a  hundred  miles  from  Latimer 
Road  Station."  Or :  "A  surprise  awaits  the  literary  world.  A 
well-known  novelist  is  said  to  have  discovered  that  he  him- 
self is  the  sole  heir  to  the  Burley  estates."  Or  (a  paragraph 
which  was  repeated  in  several  papers):  "The  son  of  a  well- 
known  actor  and  grandson  of  another  is  completing  the  pa- 
pers which  arc  to  establish  his  claim  to  the  Burley  estates." 
In  certain  circles  men  showed  this  to  each  other,  and  asked  if  it 
was  really  possible  that  Clary  Burgliloy  was  the  lucky  beggar 
pointed  at  in  these  lines. 

And  then,  somehow,  it  became  known  to  all  the  papers  at  once 
that  the  family  of  Burley  belonged,  and  had  always  belonged, 
since  the  creation  of  the  parish  in  the  year  IVIG,  to  the  Church 
of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  in  Smith  Square,  Westminster. 

If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  all  the  really  interesting  and  re- 
markable things  that  happen  in  the  world  are  sure  to  become 
known  at  the  same  moment  over  the  whole  world.  By  the  re- 
markable things  I  mean,  of  course,  the  personal  things.  The 
superiority  of  the  American  press,  for  instance,  is  proved  by  its 
recognition  of  this  fact  and  by  the  prominence  it  gives  to  the 
personal  items.      How  comes  this  simultaneous  knowledge  of 


HUNDREDS    OF    CLAIMANTS  125 

all  the  interesting  things  ?  No  one  knows.  There  are  unseen 
electric  wires  which  connect  everything  and  all  the  world  ;  it  is 
a  mark  of  civilization  to  be  connected  witlx  this  electric  ma- 
chinery. The  lower  forms  of  man  are  outside  it.  The  negro, 
for  instance,  knows  and  cares  nothing  about  the  personal  items  ; 
like  the  poet  in  the  hymn,  one  step  is  enough  for  him — that, 
namely,  to  the  nearest  melon-patch. 

When  all  the  world  understood  that  the  registers  of  the  Bur- 
ley  family  were  preserved  in  the  vestry  of  St.  Jolin  the  Evange- 
list, they  wrote  for  copies,  they  called  for  copies,  they  went  to 
that  remarkable  church — which  they  then  saw  for  the  first  time 
— and  demanded  copies.  One  of  the  evening  papers,  with  more 
enterprise  than  its  brethren,  actually  procured  copies,  and  made 
a  splendid  coup  by  forming  a  genealogical  table  out  of  the  reg- 
isters of  the  Burley  family,  from  one  Calvert  Burley,  who  was 
the  first  person  of  that  name  on  the  books. 

This  document,  which  is  not  without  interest  to  the  reader  of 
this  narrative,  is  reproduced  on  the  following  page.  He  will 
understand  that  a  parish  register  cannot  fill  up  the  history  of 
a  family,  though  it  may  give  with  accuracy  the  three  leading 
dates  of  birth,  marriage,  and  departure.  This  genealogy,  there- 
fore, does  not  contain  the  histories  of  those  members  who  were 
born  in  the  parish  but  married  and  died  outside  it. 

The  papers  pointed  out  that  the  John  Calvert  Burley  born  in 
1836  was  the  first  and  sole  heir ;  and,  in  the  event  of  his  death, 
his  sons  and  daughters.  But  where  was  he  ?  Where  were 
they?  The  whole  world  was  ringing  with  his  name,  "John 
Calvert  Burley,  born  in  1836."  Where  was  he  ?  Nobody  knew. 
Now,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  is  a  very  remarkable  circum- 
stance for  any  man  to  disappear  so  completely.  Did  he  die 
young?  Not,  at  least,  in  tfie  parish.  Therefore  he  grew  up, 
presumably.  Where  were  his  mother's  relations  ?  Did  they 
know  ?  One  of  them  wrote  to  the  papers :  he  said  that  he  was 
the  younger  brother  of  Emilia  Weldon,  who  was  married  in  1835 
to  the  recently  deceased  John  Calvert  Burley  ;  that  his  sister  had 
five  or  six  children,  all  of  whom,  except  the  eldest,  died  in  in- 
fancy ;  that  she  died  in  the  year  1850;  that  there  never  had 
been  any  cordial  relations  between  his  family  and  his  sister's 
husband  ;  that  after  her  death  no  pretence  of  friendship,  or  even 


126  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

Calvert  Btirlev 
b ;  d.  1768. 


John  Calvert     Margaret  George  Calvert 
b.  1720;  d.  1755.   b.  1722;  b.  1726 

=AgtiesSacotell   d.  1742.         (Icidnapped). 
m.  1744;  d.  1781. 


John  Calvert     Joshua  Calvert      Agnes 
b.  1745  ;  d.  1800.        b.  1747.  b.  1748. 

=Susau  reliant 
m.  1771;  d.  1829. 


John  Calvert      Henrv  Calvert     Charles  Calvert     Marv      Margaret 
b.  1772;  d.  1824.        b."l776.  b.  1778.         b.  1778.     b.  1782. 

=  Lucinda 
m.  1796;  d.  1820. 


Jolin  Calvert     Henrv  Calvert     Charles  Calvert     James  Calvert     Luciiida 
b.l798;d.l893.       b.  1799.  b.  1801.  b.  1804.  b.  1800. 


:=EmiliaWeldon 
m.  1835;  d.  1850. 


John  Calvert         Isabella         Eniily         Jane         Lucinda         James  Calvert 
b.  1836.  b.  1839;       b.  1841;     b.  1843;      b.  1845;  b.  1846; 

d.l840.        d.  1842.     d.  1844.      d.  1850.  d.  1847. 


acquaintance,  was  kept  up ;  and  that  lie  could  not  tell  what  had 
become  of  the  surviving  son,  whom  he  had  last  seen  at  his 
mother's  funeral  in  the  said  year  1851,  the  boy  being  then  about 
fifteen  years  of  age.  It  was  wonderful  that  a  young  man  should 
disappear  so  completely.  Had  lie  no  friends  ?  His  father  was 
a  miserly  and  morose  recluse — that'was  evident.  The  boy,  per- 
haps, had  gone  away.  But  whither — and  why  ?  Had  he  any 
school-fellows  who  remembered  him?  Two  men  wrote  to  say 
that  they  had  been  at  school  with  him  in  the  years  1844  to  1851, 
or  thereabouts;  that  he  was  known  to  be  the  son  of  the  notori- 
ous money-lender;  that  he  was  an  ingenious  boy,  who  made 
and  contrived  things  and  rejoiced  in  mathematics ;  that  he  left 
school  suddenly  somewhere  about  the  latter  year;  and  that  they 
had  never  since  met  him  or  heard  what  became  of  him.     Lastly, 


HUNDREDS    OF    CLAIMANTS  127 

another  old  scliool-fellow  wrote  to  say  that  he  had  met  John  Cal- 
vert Barley,  looking  prosperous,  in  the  year  1870,  in  Cheap- 
side  ;  that  he  addressed  him  by  name,  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  made  an  appointment  to  meet  him  again,  which  the  lat- 
ter never  kept.  All  this  was  very  curious  and  interesting,  and 
fired  the  imagination  a  great  deal  more  than  the  Irish  Question. 
It  was  one  of  those  subjects  which  invite  the  whole  world  to 
write  about  it.  The  whole  world  rose  to  the  occasion.  The  let- 
ters sent  to  the  papers  were  legion.  For  the  moment  there  was 
but  one  topic  of  discussion :  Where  was  John  Calvert  Burley, 
the  younger,  born  in  1836,  left  school  in  1852,  and  last  seen  in 
1870? 

"  We  have  only  to  keep  silence,  Lucian,"  said  Margaret. 

"  Until  such  time  as  they  think  sufficient  to  prove  the  death 
of  the  heir  has  elapsed.  Then,  before  they  give  the  estates  to 
any  claimant,  I  shall  step  in — " 

"  And  then  ?"  asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"  Then  we  shall  see.  Perhaps  the  occasion  may  not  arise  for 
years." 

It  is  an  age  of  great  imagination.  Almost  as  many  guesses 
were  made  as  there  were  writers.  Emigration,  said  one.  Emi- 
gration, an  up-country  station  beyond  the  reach  of  papers ;  but 
there  are  no  such  stations  left.  Death  in  some  obscure  place ; 
but,  with  all  this  racket  and  inquiry,  some  one  would  recollect 
that  death.  It  must  have  been  within  the  last  twenty-three 
years.  A  lunatic  asylum,  under  some  adopted  name;  there  was 
a  man  in  Melbourne  some  time  ago  who  actually  forgot  his  own 
name  and  history.  Might  not  John  Burley  be  suffering  some- 
where from  this  strange  disease  ?  A  prison  ;  was  he  a  crimi- 
nal, undergoing  a  sentence  ?  Or  was  he  a  criminal  who  had  ac- 
complished his  term  and  was  afraid  to  return  ?  Or,  perhaps, 
he  might  be  in  a  monastery.  But  then,  oh  !  how  joyfully  would 
the  brethren  seize  upon  the  estates !  Was  he  in  one  of  the  few 
places  where  the  papers  do  not  arrive — in  Patagonia,  perhaps  ? — 
or  in  Stanley's  mighty  forest,  among  the  Pygmies  ? 

Then  began  the  stories  of  miraculous  disappearance.  Every- 
body remembered  the  disappearance  of  the  Englishman  in  Ger- 
many about  the  year  1812  as  he  stepped  from  one  carriage  to 
another.     And  there  was  the  disappearance  of  Grimaldi's  broth- 


128  15EY0KD    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

er  between  tlic  last  scene  l»ut  one  and  the  last  scene  of  the  pan 
tomine. 

Next :  liow  long  would  the  Treasury  wait  before  the}'  con- 
sidered this  last  hoir  to  be  dead  ?  And  upon  this  point  a  journal 
of  common-sense  spoke  words  of  wisdom.  "We  offer  this  advice," 
said  the  paper,  "  to  all  those  who  have  sent  in  claims  and  have 
come  up  to  London  in  order  to  look  after  them  on  the  spot.  It 
is  that  they  leave  their  papers  in  the  hands  of  the  Treasury,  and 
go  home  again  and  betake  themselves  to  their  ordinary  pursuits, 
without  thinking  about  their  claims  more  than  they  can  help. 
The  chances  will  probably  prove  a  disturbing  element  as  long 
as  they  live,  for  only  to  be  able  to  think  that  one  has  a  chance 
of  so  great  a  property  is  a  thing  calculated  to  disturb  the  most 
philosophic  soul.  Let  them,  however,  go  home,  and  take  up 
their  daily  task  again  with  what  calm  and  patience  they  may 
find." 

And  from  Pole  to  Pole,  unto  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 
was  raised  that  cry,  "  Where  is  John  Burley,  the  younger,  born 
in  the  year  183G,  last  seen  in  the  year  1870  ?"  And  to  all  their 
calling,  no  answer.  Silence  —  as  deep  as  the  silence  of  the 
heavens ;  as  deep  as  the  silence  of  the  grave  ! .  Wonderful  I  Was 
there  no  one — not  one  single  living  person  who  would  remem- 
ber anything  at  all  about  a  man  prosperous  and  flourishing,  to 
outward  seeming,  only  twenty  years  ago?  Silence — as  deep  as 
the  silence  of  the  heavens ;  as  deep  as  the  silence  of  the  grave ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE       MISSING      LINK 

"Have  you  seen  this?"  Clarence  held  up  a  paper  —  that 
which  published  the  pedigree  as  taken  from  the  parish  registers. 
"  Have  you  seen  this  ?" 

It  was  about  five  in  the  afternoon  when  his  partner,  who  liad 
been  out  all  day,  returned. 

"  I  saw  it  before  you  got  up  this  morning.  I've  been  all  day 
engaged  in  vcrifving  the  thing." 

» Well  r 

"It's  all  right;  and  now  it's  clear  that  your  grandfather. 
Clary,  was  the  second  son,  Henry  Calvert  Burley.  There  he  is." 
The  poet's  broad  forefinger  covered  the  name.  "  Second  son. 
You  couldn't  be  closer,  unless  you  were  actually  a  grandson." 

"Yes — yes — the  second  son.  Why — there! — there!  Man 
alive  !     What  more  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Softly,  Clarence.  Let  us  sit  down  quietly  and  talk  this  thing 
over.  We  have  to  prove  our  claim.  You  and  I  know  very  well 
that  there  is  no  doubt  possible.  Everybody  who  reads  our  case 
must  feel  that  there  is  no  doubt  possible.  Yet,  you  see,  it  isn't 
proved." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  want  more  ?" 

"  We  want  to  prove,  not  to  assert,  things.  I'm  a  lawyer,  now, 
Clary,  not  a  poet.     Sit  down,  man — don't  jump  about  so." 

His  eyes  had  that  look  of  expectancy  which  belongs  to  an  in- 
ventor or  to  a  claimant.  The  look  speaks  of  a  thought  which 
never  leaves  one,  day  or  night — of  hope  deferred  ;  of  doubt ;  of 
rage  because  of  the  stupidity  or  the  malignity  of  people. 

"  For  God's  sake,  finish  this  job  soon,"  said  Clarence.  "  I 
don't  think  I  can  bear  it  much  longer." 

"  Why,  man,  we've  only  just  begun — I  am  afraid  that  it  will 
6*   ' 


130  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

prove  a  waiting  job,  unless  you  can  cstablisli  the  dcatli  of  the 
son  and  his  heirs.  You  can't  expect  the  Treasury  to  hand  over 
this  enormous  property  to  the  first  claimant,  can  you  ?" 

"  All  I  know  is  that  the  thing  haunts  me  day  and  night." 

"  It  does,  my  boy.  Your  eyes  are  black-edged  and  your  fore- 
head is  wrinkled." 

"  Lucky  it  has  been  suiimier.  But  work  will  begin  again 
soon,  and — I  say  —  the  thought  of  work  makes  me  shudder — I 
am  heir  to  all  that  property,  and  I  have  to  go  out  and  be  paid 
for  singing  comic  songs." 

"Humph!  You  are  paid  pretty  well.  Come,  now  —  but 
about  the  inheritance — where's  that  son  ?" 

"  lie  must  be  dead.  After  all  tlie  fuss  made  about  liim,  he 
would  hear  it  at  the  South  Pole.     Oh  !  he  must  be  dead." 

"  W'ry  likely — most  likely." 

"Dead — and  without  heirs,  or  they  v.ould  have  turned  up 
long  since." 

"  Very  likely — most  likely  ;  only  somebody  must  prove  it,  or 
you  will  have  to  wait.  When  did  he  die  ?  AVhere  did  he  die  ? 
Has  he  left  any  heirs  ?  These  are  the  questions,  you  see.  So 
we  may  just  go  back  to  our  old  work,  and  make  new  engage- 
ments, and  write  new  songs.  It's  a  horrid  nuisance.  Clary,  for 
you  are  certainly  the  grandson  of  the  next  brother.  But,  so 
far,  we  haven't  got  evidence  enough  to  prove  the  connection. 
And  we  may  have  to  wait  for  years.  If  the  son  and  his  heirs 
were  out  of  the  way  I  should  begin  " — he  became  a  poet  again — 

"Begin  to  hear  tlie  rustling  of  the  notes — 
Oil !  crisp  and  soft  and  sweet  upon  the  ear ! 
No  softer,  sweeter  music  rolls  and  floats — 
And  none,  my  brother,  rarer  and  more  dear. 

And  I  should  begin  to  hear  the  footsteps,"  he  added,  going 
back  to  prose — "  the  footsteps  of  those  who  humbly  bring  pieces 
of  silver — I  don't  think  there  is  any  rhyme  to  silver.  Mean- 
time, old  man,  it  is  going  to  be  a  long  job.  Therefore,"  he  laid 
a  friendly  hand  upon  Clarence's  shoulder,  "  don't  think  too 
much  about  it.  Go  back  to  your  old  thoughts.  Let  us  get  to 
real  business.  My  new  songs  are  nearly  ready,  and  I've  got  a 
ca})ital  little  entertainment  for  you — " 


THE    MISSING    LINK  131 

"  I  can't — "  The  young  man  turned  away  impatiently.  "  I 
am  sick  and  ashamed  of  it." 

"  Nonsense.     If  it's  all  you've  got  to  live  upon — " 

"  I  can't.  It's  all  so  small.  What's  a  thousand  a  year,  or 
two  thousand  ?  It's  such  a  trifle  compared  with  this  immense 
mountain  of  money.  It's  the  comparison.  See,  I  work  as  hard 
as  I  can — five  engagements  a  week,  say,  for  half  the  year.  What 
is  it  compared  with  the  income  of  that  fortune  —  four  hundred 
thousand  a  year,  a  thousand  pounds  a  day  ?  Think  of  it  that 
way." 

"  Well,  Clary,  I  can't  think  of  it  that  way.  The  figures  are 
too  big  —  my  limitations  as  regards  money  are  narrow.  They 
allow  me  with  difficulty  to  include  a  thousand  a  year.  But, 
Clary,  you  were  not  wont  to  do  sums  in  long  division  to  please 
yourself.     Doing  sums  isn't  in  your  blood,  I  should  say." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  Clarence  replied,  slowly.  "Show -folk  don't, 
as  a  rule,  care  for  money.  You  see,  it's  easily  made  and  easily 
spent.  They  live  from  week  to  week.  But,  now — do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  think  and  crave  and  yearn  for  drink?" 

"Rumor,  report  —  has  reached  me  concerning  a  thirst  insati- 
able. What  says  the  old  song? — '  We  cannot  drink  an  hour  too 
soon — nor  drink  a  cup  too  much.'  " 

'*  Well,  with  that  same  craving  I  yearn  for  this  money.  It  is 
my  great-grandfather,  the  Westminster  miser,  coming  out  again 
in  me.  I  dream  of  it ;  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  have  no  rest  or  peace 
until  I  have  got  it." 

"  No  heroics,  Clary.     You  mean  it  ?" 

"  I  mean  it  all ;  I  am  like  that  drunkard  with  the  craving  in 
his  throat.  I  want  this  inheritance ;  all  of  it.  Oh !  it  is  so 
close  to  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  lay  my  hand  upon  it." 

"After  all,  what  could  you  do  with  it,  if  you  had  it?  The 
thing  is  far  too  big  for  any  one  man  to  handle." 

"Too  big?"  Clarence  turned  upon  him  fiercely.  "What 
could  I  do  with  it?  Your  limitations  are  indeed  narrow.  Well, 
you  haven't  thought  of  it  so  much  as  I  have.  What  could  I 
not  do  with  it  ?  First  of  all,  I  would  have  my  own  theatre  for 
my  friends.  There  we  should  act  our  own  pieces  with  a  free 
hand  as  to  subjects.  We  shouldn't  have  it  open  all  the  year, 
but  one  may  sink  a  good  deal  in  a  theatre  properly  conducted. 


132  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Then  I  should  want  my  own  newspaper.  I  know  exactly  what 
I  should  want :  no  politics ;  no  money  markets ;  no  beastly  re- 
views ;  nothing  but  Art  and  Literature  and  Music,  and  things 
artistic  and  a'sthetic,  and,  again,  a  free  hand  as  to  subjects. 
Then  there  must  be  a  yacht.  If  one  must  go  out  of  town  some 
time  in  the  year,  a  cruise  in  a  yacht  is  the  best  way.  Of  course, 
there  would  be  a  town  house,  and  open  house ;  no  beastly  char- 
ity or  philanthropy  or  stuff ;  no  pretending  to  care  about  any- 
body else;  pure  selfishness;  that's  what  I  want,  my  friend.  All 
the  people  about  me  shall  be  hired  to  make  our  lives — my  life — 
run  smoothly.  I  shall  be  an  Eastern  king,  with  art  and  culture 
added.  You  shall  sec ;  1  will  show  you,  as  soon  as  the  busi- 
ness is  settled,  how  a  rich  man  ought  to  live !" 

"  You'd  get  rather  fat  in  the  cheeks  after  a  bit,  wouldn't  you  ? 
and  a  little  puffy  in  the  neck.  Philanthropy  is  humbug,  and 
man's  brotherhood  is  rot"  —  he  dropped,  as  usual,  into  verse — 
"and  my  only  pal,  my  only  friend,  is  ME.  Rather  a  good  tag, 
the  last  line.  Don't  you  think — "  lie  stopped  and  made  a 
note. 

"Well,  Jemmy,  there's  my  plan  of  life  in  the  rough.  I  am 
only  afraid  that  it  may  prove  too  costly,  even  for  my  large  fort- 
une." 

"Meantime,  Clary,  it  will  be  better  for  you  if  you  descend  to 
facts  and  consider  how  we  stand." 

"  There  is  nothing  new,  is  there  ?" 

"  This  :  We  are  now  in  August.  Work  begins  in  Septem- 
ber, and  you  are  not  fit  for  work  —  and  you've  got  to  make 
yourself  fit,  Clary — you've  got  to  mend."  The  poet  spoke  like 
the  master  rather  than  the  partner.  But  there  are  some  occa- 
sions when  mastery  in  speech  is  useful. 

"  Well  r 

"As  for  the  case,  1  tell  you  that  it  will  be  years,  perhaps,  be- 
fore it  is  decided ;  and  if  it  were  decided  now,  your  case  could 
not  be  proved.  Come  out  of  your  dreams,  man.  Shake  your- 
self ;  face  the  facts." 

Clarence  shook  himself,  but  he  did  not  face  the  facts. 

"Consider,"  his  partner  went  on,  "the  attitude  of  the  Treas- 
ury. They  say  there  is  a  man  named  Henry  Calvert  Burghley, 
an  actor.     Where  is  the  proof  that  this  Ilcnry  Calvert  Burghley 


THE    MISSING    LINK  133 

was  originally  Henry  Calvert,  the  second  son  of  Burlej  the 
miser?    Where  is  it?    That's  what  they  say." 

Clarence  made  no  answer. 

"  We  want  proof  that  the  boy  who  ran  away  became  an  actor. 
We  want  to  know  when  he  changed  his  name  ;  in  fact,  we  want 
to  recover  the  early  history  of  an  obscure  country  actor  —  and 
we  have  as  much  hope  of  finding  it  as  we  have  of  any  name 
taken  at  random  from  a  London  cemetery." 

"  We  have  a  letter." 

*'  Yes ;  that  is  something.  It  is  signed  '  Your  affectionate 
brother,  Charles.'  And  it  comes  from  Westminster.  Well,  there 
was  a  younger  brother,  Charles,  as  well  as  a  second  brother,  Hen- 
ry. But  there  is  nothing  to  prove  that  the  letter  was  written 
by  this  younger  brother  to  the  elder  brother.  If  we  had  other 
letters  to  prove  the  handwriting  —  but  we  haven't.  No,  Clary, 
our  best  chance  is  delay.  Time  may  give  us  something.  Let 
us  see,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "  lie  ran  away  ;  he  had 
very  little  money  ;  he  joined  a  strolling  company ;  he  began  at 
the  very  bottom  of  the  ladder,  and  worked  his  way  up.  Men 
very  seldom  talk  of  the  first  start.  The  lessee  of  the  York 
Theatre,  the  favorite  London  actor,  wouldn't  talk  much  about 
the  early  days.  It  must  be  eighty  years  ago.  IIow  on  earth 
are  we  to  trace  the  beginnings  of  a  lad  who  ran  away  from 
home  eighty  years  ago?  And  he  never  talked  about  his  people, 
and  you  never  inquired.  I  suppose  you  were  satisfied  with 
having  a  grandfather.  To  be  third  in  a  succession  of  frock- 
coats  and  top -hats  is  enough  to  make  anybody  a  gentleman. 
And,  besides,  when  your  grandfather  had  arrived  at  his  pin- 
nacle, he  wouldn't  be  proud  of  the  Barley  brother  —  Burley 
the  Money-Lender;  Burley  the  owner  of  the  Dancing-Crib; 
Burley  of  the  Gambling -IIcll ;  not  a  character  likely  to  attract 
the  light  comedian — the  squanderer — the  Pere  Prodigue.  We 
can  understand  the  situation,  but  it's  unfortunate.  What  are 
we  to  do  ?" 

Clarence  shook  his  shoulders. 

"  Perhaps  the  Treasury  have  got  papers  tliat  prove  the  con- 
nection.    Hang  it !     A  single  letter  would  do." 

Clarence  got  up  and  leaned  on  the  mantel-shelf,  gazing  into 
the  empty  fireplace. 


134  UEYOXD  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"I  rcincnibcr,"  lie  said,  speaking  slowly,  "a  little  play  that 
my  grandfather  cribbed  from  the  French.  It  was  a  comedy,  in 
which  he  played  the  principal  part.  That  was  easy,  because  it 
was  himself.  In  it  he  did  everything,  without  the  least  refer- 
ence to  morality,  that  would  help  him  to  what  he  wanted.  He 
sold  secrets,  he  forged  signatures,  he  opened  private  letters;  and 
all  with  such  a  delightful  simplicity  that  nobody  blamed  him.  I 
have  often  wondered,  if  the  chance  came,  whether  one  could 
rise  to  that  level  ?" 

'*  Speaking  as  a  lawyer.  Clary,  I  should  say  that  it  was  dan- 
gerous. As  a  poet,  I  think  the  situation  capable  of  treatment. 
Have  you  got  any  portraits  of  your  grandfather?" 

"  In  character?" 

"  In  character.  That  might  be  something.  If  we  could  get 
hold  of  an  early  portrait  and  could  find  some  old  friend — but 
that  is  impossible,  I  fear — or  if  we  could  find  any  other  de- 
scendants, or  if  we  could  advertise  for  any  one  who  might  re- 
member him  as  a  young  man — Wanted:  a  Methusaleh  !"  He 
stopped.  "  "Well,  Clary,  dear  boy,  that's  where  we  are.  It  is 
not  encouraging,  but  one  need  not  despair.  Meanwhile,  it  may 
be  years  before  the  claimants  arc  even  considered.  We've  got 
to  work  and  live.  Get  the  Joyous  Life  out  of  your  head. 
Don't  dream  any  more — for  the  present,  at  least  —  about  the 
golden  possibilities.  Forget  them — and  set  to  work  again.  You 
must." 

"  I  can't  forget  them,"  groaned  the  Heir  Expectant. 

"  Well,  unless  I  am  to  starve — which  afflicts  me  much  more 
than  the  certainty  of  seeing  you  starve  as  well — you  will  just 
sit  down,  get  rid  of  that  hangdog  face  of  yours,  which  would 
damn  the  funniest  song  ever  made,  and  get  something  like  sun- 
shine in  your  face — and  try  this  new  song  of  mine: 

"  Wanted,  a  Methusaleh  !     To  tell  us  how  they  kept  it  up — 

Our  fathers  in  the  by-goncs  when  they  made  the  guineas  spin ; 
How  tliey  wasted  time  and  drank  it  up,  and  anything  but  slept  it  up — 
And  always  ere    the  old  love  died  a  new  love  would  begin." 


CHAPTER   XVII 
THE     BEGINNING     OF    THE     CLOUD 

Does  any  one  ever  remember  the  first  beginning  of  an  evil 
thing?  Does  any  one  remember  tlie  first  observation  of  the  dark 
spot  whicli  grows  darker,  broader,  deeper,  till  it  covers  over  and 
hides  the  summer  sky  and  darkens  the  summer  sun  ? 

The  young  married  pair  of  Great  College  Street  were  much 
alone;  they  had  few  friends  in  London  ;  they  led  the  most  quiet 
and  regular  life  possible.  In  the  morning  the  husband  went  to 
the  hospital  ;  in  the  afternoon  he  worked  in  his  study,  ready 
for  the  patient  who  did  not  come.  In  the  morning  the  young 
wife  looked  after  her  home,  walked  in  the  park  or  about  the 
quiet  courts  of  the  Abbey;  in  the  evening,  after  dinner,  she  sat 
in  the  study  while  her  husband  carried  on  his  work  till  half-past 
ten  or  so,  when  he  turned  his  chair  round,  filled  his  pipe,  and  they 
talked  till  midnight. 

There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  happiness  of  this  honeymoon 
prolonged,  unless  it  was  that  strange  dream  of  the  mourning 
mothers,  which  came  back  to  Margaret  continually — in  the  night, 
in  the  daytime — a  vision  unbidden,  that  would  suddenly  float  be- 
fore her  eyes — the  company  of  sad-eyed,  pale-faced,  sorrow-strick- 
en women,  who  held  out  hands  and  cried,  "She  is  one  with  us — 
she  is  one  of  us!"  It  was  a  persistent  dream — perhaps  the  very 
strangeness  of  it  caused  Margaret  to  return  to  it  again  and  again. 
IIovv  could  she  belong  to  these  hapless  ladies  when  they  were  sep- 
arated by  Lucian's  change  of  name  and  his  refusal  to  claim  the 
great  inheritance  ?  The  dream  troubled  her,  but  not  mucb,  though 
it  persistently  remained  with  her. 

How  long  was  it? — a  week? — a  month? — after  they  went  into 
their  house  that  the  anxiety  began  ?  When  was  it  that  the  young 
wife,  reading  her  husband's  thoughts,  saw  in  his  mind  doubt  and 


136  BEVOND    TlIK    DREAMS    OK    AVAUICE 

disturbance;  licard  a  temptation  continually  wliispeied  ;  saw  an 
car  ever  readier  to  listen  ?  The  discovery  of  the  temptation — the 
knowledge  that  he  was  listening — filled  lier  soul  with  dismay.  In 
the  afternoon,  when  he  should  have  been  at  work,  she  heard  liim 
pacing  the  narrow  limits  of  his  study.  Like  most  young  scientific 
men,  he  wrote  for  medical  papers  and  scientific  magazines;  ho  re- 
viewed scientific  books;  he  wrote  papers  on  such  of  his  subjects 
as  could  be  made  popular  in  the  weekly  reviews;  and  he  had  a 
book  of  his  own  on  the  stocks,  a  work  by  which  he  hoped  to  gain 
a  place  as  a  specialist;  an  advanced  book  with  all  the  recent  med- 
ical lights;  a  work  psychological,  biological,  and  everything  else 
that  was  new  and  true  and  imcomfortable.  lie  read  a  great  deal 
in  the  medical  journals  of  Germany,  France,  and  Italy;  in  short, 
he  was  without  any  practice  except  that  in  his  hospital.  Lucian 
Calvert  led  a  very  busy  life,  and,  like  most  men  who  are  fully  oc- 
cupied, he  was  a  perfectly  cheerful  creature.  The  maiden  expect- 
ant of  a  lover  should  pray,  above  all  things,  that  he  may  turn  out 
to  be  a  man  with  an  active  brain,  and  belonging  to  an  intellectual 
profession,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  cheerfulness.  Margaret 
loved  to  see  him  absorbed  in  thought;  she  sat  perfectly  still  so 
long  as  he  was  working,  contented  to  wait  till  he  shouM  turn  his 
chair,  take  his  pipe,  and  say,  "  Now,  Madge  !" 

But  when  Lucian  was  walking  up  and  down  the  floor  of  his 
study  he  was  not  working.  lie  was  disturbed  in  his  mind;  his 
thoughts  were  diverted.  By  what?  At  dinner,  at  breakfast,  when 
they  took  their  walks  abroad,  he  would  become  distrait,  silent, 
thoughtful — he  who  had  been  able  to  convert  even  a  stalled  ox 
into  a  feast  of  contentment  and  cheerfulness.     Why? 

In  his  study,  after  dinner,  his  wife  saw  that  he  sat  with  his  eyes 
gazing  into  space  and  his  pen  lying  idle.    What  was  he  thinking  of  ? 

Alas!  She  knew.  Women  who  love  are  all  thought-readers. 
She  saw,  I  say,  that  before  his  eyes  there  was  floating  continually 
the  temptation  that  she  feared.  Ilcr  heart  grew  sick  within  her — 
more  sick  and  sorry  day  by  day — as  she  saw  that  the  strength  of 
the  temptation  was  daily  growing.  And  the  light  died  out  in  his 
eyes  and  the  ready  smile  left  his  lips,  and  Lucian,  while  he  listened 
to  the  voice  of  the  Tempter,  was  transformed  Jind  became  as  black- 
avised  and  as  dour  and  as  resolute  of  aspect  as  his  ancestor,  the  first 
great  Calvert  Burley. 


THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE    CLOUD  137 

One  night  when  lie  turned  bis  chair  and  mechanically  took  his 
pipe,  she  spoke.  "  Where  have  your  thoughts  been  all  this  even- 
ing, Lucian  ?  You  have  done  no  work,  unless,  perhaps,  you  were 
devising  some.     Your  gaze  has  been  fixed." 

"  I  have  been  up-stairs,"  he  replied,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I 
have  been  among  the  grandfathers  and  the  grandmothers." 

"Is  it  good  to  live  among  them,  Lucian?  Does  it  make  you 
taller  or  stronger  to  live  among  these  poor  people?  They  crept 
and  crawled  through  life,  did  they  not?  But  you — oh!  Lucian 
— you  walk  erect." 

"  I  go  among  them  sometimes — "  he  began. 

"Sometimes?  You  were  among  them  this  afternoon,  and  at 
dinner,  and  all  the  evening.  And  yesterday  the  same.  I  begin  to 
think,  Lucian,  that  we  made  a  dreadful  mistake  when  we  came  to 
this  house." 

"It  is  not  exactly  a  house  which  preaches  contentment  to  the 
disinherited,  is  it  ?" 

"If  we  cannot  get  contentment,  dear  Lucian,  for  Heaven's 
sake  let  us  go  elsewhere  and  leave  these  memories  behind.  My 
dear,  what  will  our  life  become  if  we  are  not  contented?" 

"Do  not  fear,  Marjoric" — he  roused  himself  with  an  effort  and 
laughed — "  I  only  pay  occasional  visits  to  the  portraits.  The  fam- 
ily, as  you  say,  did  mostly  creep  and  crawl.  They  have  had  their 
divagations  ;  they  have  trodden  the  Primrose  Way  ;  still,  they  are 
our  ancestors — and  perhaps  a  little  show  of  respect  occasionally 
— from  time  to  time — not  often,  you  know — may  be  considered 
due  to  them.  They  are  all  the  ancestors  I  am  likely  to  get,  you 
know." 

Margaret  shrank  back,  chilled.  She  was  afraid  of  saying 
more. 

Again — it  was  Sunday  afternoon.  They  took  their  early  din- 
ner in  cheerfulness — the  disinheritance  for  the  time  forgotten — 
and  the}'  repaired — young  husbands,  even  scientific  husbands,  fre- 
quently accede  to  their  wives'  wishes  in  small  matters  —  to  the 
Abbey  for  afternoon  service.  During  the  sermon,  which  was  not 
perfectly  audible  in  every  part  of  the  Cathedral,  Lucian  occupied 
himself  in  turning  over  the  pages  of  his  wife's  Bible.  The  world, 
perhaps  in  prejudice,  does  not  generally  look  upon  young  physi- 
cians as  zealous  students  of  the  Bible,  and  Margaret  observed  Lu- 


138  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

ciaii's  curiosity  with  some  wonder.  For  her  own  part,  thoiigli  she 
did  not  hear  one  word  of  the  sermon,  it  was  quite  enough  to  sit 
in  the  old  Cathedral,  to  look  up  into  the  lofty  roof,  to  gaze  upon 
the  inarvelioHS  window  of  the  transept,  and  to  breathe  the  air  of 
the  venerable  place,  which  is  always  full  of  consolation  to  those  who 
can  open  out  their  souls  and  receive  its  influence. 

After  service  they  walked  in  the  park  close  by  :  in  the  south 
part  of  it,  which  is  tlie  less  frequented.  They  walked  in  silence 
for  a  while.  Lucian  was  a  man  of  long  silences  at  all  times.  It 
was  by  his  face  that  he  showed  whither  his  thoughts  led  him. 

"  About  that  hereditary  theory,"  he  began.  "  There  is  hered- 
ity in  disease;  there  is  heredity  in  health.  Drunkenness  is  some- 
times inherited  ;  it  is,  perhaps,  a  nervous  disease,  like  asthma  and 
the  rest  of  the  tribe.  Any  man  can  vitiate  his  blood,  and  can 
transmit  that  vitiation  to  following  generations.  In  this  sense 
there  is  constantly  with  all  of  us  hereditary  disease,  because  none 
of  us  are  perfectly  strong  and  healthy.''' 

"Go  on,  Lucian." 

"Yes.  But  you  say,  Margaret,  that  a  mental  twist,  such  as 
makes  a  man  a  miser  or  a  money-lender,  is  the  child  of  one  men- 
tal twist  or  the  father  of  another." 

"  I  think  that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the  chil- 
dren for  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  And  in  your  people, 
Lucian,  the  sins  of  the  fathers  have  been  followed  by  the  sins  of 
the  sons,  so  that  every  generation  has  suffered  for  its  predecessor 
and  brought  more  suffering  upon  its  successor." 

"  That  is  your  view.  Yes,  my  father — very  oddly,  because  he 
was  not  a  superstitious  man — thought  much  the  same  thing." 

"  Why  should  not  a  man's  sins  be  punished  in  his  children  as 
well  as  his  diseases?" 

"I  don't  know  why  they  should  not.  The  other  question  is, 
why  they  should  ?" 

"  Oh,  Lucian  !     Because — but  you  do  not  think  as  I  do." 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  will  refer  you,  however,  to  an  authority 
which  you  respect.  While  you  were  pretending  to  listen — pret- 
ty hypocrite  ! — to  what  you  could  not  hear,  I  occupied  myself 
profitably  in  looking  up  a  rather  important  statement  of  the  case 
from  another  point  of  view.  I  had  seen  it  quoted,  and  I  knew 
where  to  look.     It  is  a  passage  in  the   works  of   the  Prophet 


IN    THE    OLD    CATHEDRAL 


THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE    CLOUD  139 

Ezekiel.  Says  tlie  Prophet — or  words  to  this  effect — '  There  is 
a  common  proverb  that  the  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes  and 
the  teeth  of  the  children  are  in  consequence  set  on  edge.  It  is  a 
foolish  proverb,  because  every  man  lias  got  to  live  out  his  own 
honor  or  his  own  dishonor.'  Read  the  passage,  my  child.  It  is 
put  so  plainly  that  it  is  impossible  to  misunderstand  it.  Nay, 
he  is  so  much  in  earnest  about  it  —  Joshua  Ben  Jochanan,  the 
great  money-lender,  having  recently  died,  and  his  children  being 
taunted  with  the  proverb — that  he  returns  to  the  subject  again 
and  repeats  his  arguments.  I  am  very  glad  I  went  to  church 
•with  you  this  afternoon.  Will  you  read  this  Prophet  and  discard 
these  superstitions?" 

"  He  meant  something  else,  I  suppose.  But,  Lucian,  how 
can  you  say  that  the  children  do  not  suffer  for  their  father's 
sins?" 

"  Physically  they  often  do." 

"But  if  a  man  disgraces  himself  and  loses  caste  or  falls  into 
poverty,  his  children  sink  into  a  lower  place;  they  cannot  get  up 
again  out  of  their  poverty  or  their  shame;  they  are  kept  down 
for  life;  their  children  have  got  to  begin  all  over  again.  Oh  !  It 
is  so  clear  that  it  cannot  be  doubted  or  denied." 

"  In  social  matters,  and  in  the  middle  class,  I  dare  say.  Most 
middle-class  people  hang  on  to  their  social  position,  such  as  it 
may  be,  with  their  own  hands  and  with  no  help  from  cousins. 
When  they  fall  their  fall  is  complete.  In  the  case  of  people 
well  connected,  with  some  generations  of  affluence  behind  them, 
and  with  cousins  all  over  the  country,  when  a  man  comes  to  grief 
it  may  be  grievous  for  his  children,  but  it  does  not  necessarily 
mean  a  lower  level.  Why,  the  simple  annals  of  the  aristocracy 
are  full  of  the  most  tremendous  croppers  taken  by  the  fathers, 
and  the  sons  are  never  a  whit  the  worse." 

Margaret  shook  her  head. 

"  In  the  case  of  my  people,  now,  their  misfortunes  were  always 
due  to  their  own  folly  or  their  crimes." 

"  Lucian,  dear,  do  not  talk  any  more  about  it.  Those  who  in- 
herited that  dreadful  estate  endured  things  that  went  with  it.  I 
have  studied  the  faces  of  the  mothers,  and  I  read  upon  them  all 
the  martyrdom  they  suffered." 

"  You  are  a  superstitious  woman,  Madge,"  said  her  husband. 


140  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

He  returned  to  the  subject  the  next  evening. 

"About  your  view,  dear — about  the  forefathers — you  know?" 

"Oil!  don't  think  about  tliem  so  much," 

"There  is  something  to  be  said  in  favor  of  it,  so  far  as  tlie 
mental  twist  can  be  gathered.  Take  the  first  of  them — Grand- 
father Calvert  the  First,  the  original  Burley — what  do  we  know 
about  him?  A  tradition  mentioned  in  my  father's  memorandum 
that  he  acquired  money  by  dishonest  practices.  Perhaps  he  did. 
At  the  same  time,  remember  that  we  know  nothing  certain 
about  him.  There  is  no  proof.  For  all  we  know,  he  may  have 
been  the  most  upright  man  in  the  world.  Then  there  is  that  un- 
lucky Shepherd  who  was  suspended ;  he  paid  for  his  own  diver- 
sions; when  lie  had  paid,  nothing  more  was  owing.  His  son 
went  mad.  So  did  a  good  many  other  poor  wretches.  Religious 
mad,  he  went.  So  did  Cowper,  the  poet.  But  Cowpcr,  so  far 
as  I  know,  never  laid  the  blame  on  his  grandfather.  A  tendency 
to  some  unsoundness  of  mind — some  inability  to  recognize  the 
true  proportions  of  things — may  be  observed,  perhaps,  in  all  of 
them.  There  was,  for  example,  the  miser.  It  isn't  absolutely 
disgraceful  to  be  a  miser — most  people  who  save  money  have  to 
be  miserly — but  it  denotes  their  inability  to  understand  the  rela- 
tive proportions  of  things.  T  can  discern  no  signs  of  your  fa- 
mous curse  in  the  cheese-paring  life  of  Great-Grandfather  Miser, 
but  I  do  discern  an  unbalanced  mind.  Then  comes  his  son,  the 
money-lender  and  money-grubber,  lie  did  not  grub  for  money 
in  quite  a  noble  way — so  much  must  be  confessed.  But  he  was 
not  a  criminal,  nor  was  lie  disgraced — " 

"  Not  disgraced  ?     Oh,  Lucian  !" 

"Not  disgraced  by  the  world.  And  he  lived  to  a  great  age, 
amassing  money  all  the  time.  It  is  an  unbalanced  mind  which 
puts  money  in  the  front.  As  for  other  things,  we  might  parade 
them  all,  except  one,  as  quite  a  respectable  set  of  ancestors,  and 
manifestly  blessed  by  Providence,  which  made  them  rich  on  ac- 
count of  their  many  virtues." 

"Those  were  singular  blessings  indeed,  which  fell  upon  your 
grandfather's  brothers." 

"  Who,  remember,  had  none  of  the  inheritance,  my  dear."  * 

Thus  he  talked,  returning  to  the  subject  perpetually,  as  a  moth 
flies  round  a  candle  until  it  falls  at  last  into  the  flame. 


THE    DEGINNING    OF    THE    CLOUD  141 

TMs  was  the  cloud  that  Margaret  watched  as  it  spread  around 
the  horizon,  and  grew  day  by  day  deeper  and  broader  and  black- 
er, till  it  covered  all  the  summer  sky  and  blotted  out  the  sum- 
mer sun. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE    BOX    OF    ACCOUNT-BOOKS 

One  morning  Margaret  sat  again  in  the  nursery  at  tlic  top  of 
the  house.  The  visitation  of  the  mothers  was  not  repeated. 
She  sat  on  the  bed  and  remembered  tlie  faintness,  and  then,  wl)en 
slie  opened  her  eyes,  the  company  of  sorrowful  women  gathered 
round  her  bed.  She  recalled  this  company  often.  The  recol- 
lection of  their  faces  came  to  her  at  odd  times,  by  day  and  by 
night;  but  in  this  room  they  came  no  more.  She  had  received, 
as  in  a  vision,  their  welcome  and  their  pity  once  for  all. 

Sometimes  she  saw,  in  fancy,  the  same  look  of  welcome  and 
pity  in  tiie  sorrowful  eyes  of  the  portraits.  Was  there  really  any 
look  at  all  of  sorrow  in  those  faces?  Had  the  limner  caught  the 
characteristic  look,  the  habitual  expression,  which  the  daily  life 
casts  upon  a  face?  Had  he  been  inspired  to  foretell,  by  the  ex- 
pression of  the  eyes,  the  sadness  of  the  future  ?  I  know  not. 
They  were  stiff  and  conventional  paintings,  of  little  merit;  a  me- 
chanical likeness  was  all  that  the  artist  desired  to  produce — he 
wanted  people  to  say — they  still  say  it  at  every  Royal  Academy 
— "How  like!  How  exactly  like  it  is!"  Whether,  therefore, 
the  unknown  painters  who  executed  these  works  of  art,  between 
the  years  1720  and  1830  or  thereabouts,  had  put  into  the  faces 
all  that  Margaret  saw,  I  know  not. 

The  morning  was  fine;  the  sun  streamed  through  the  windows, 
now  clean,  upon  the  floor,  now  swept.  No  other  change  had 
been  made  in  the  room ;  the  cradle  and  the  chest  of  drawers,  the 
chairs  and  the  bedstead,  were  all  as  they  had  been  handed  over. 
When  the  burden  of  her  anxiety  became  almost  more  than  she 
could  bear,  Margaret  came  up  here  in  the  morning,  to  find  conso- 
lation in  the  room  of  the  little  children.  "  While  they  played 
here,"  she  thought,  "  there  was  a.  time  of  hope  and  happiness. 


THE    BOX    OF    ACCOUNT-BOOKS  143 

When  they  left  the  nursery  and  went  forth  into  the  world,  then 
began  again  the  punishment  of  the  father's  sin."  For,  you  see, 
despite  that  chapter  in  the  book  of  the  Prophet  Ezekiel,  this  su- 
perstitious person  could  never  shake  off  the  conviction  that,  from 
father  to  son,  be  who  possessed  the  wealth  first  gotten  by  Calvert 
Burley  received  with  it  something  that  poisoned  his  whole  life. 
And  now  she  saw  her  husband  daily  assailed  with  the  temptation 
that  bade  him  take  his  own,  and  enjoy  whatsoever  his  soul  de- 
sired. 

A  morbid  habit — to  sit  licre  among  the  rags  and  tatters  of  the 
past.  Better,  perhaps,  had  she  put  on  her  bat  and  sallied  forth 
into  tbe  streets  and  the  crossways.  In  Westminster,  however, 
there  are  no  streets  to  walk  in.  There  are  squalid  old  streets  and 
ugly  new  streets.  The  absence  of  streets  for  walking  is  more 
than  made  up  by  the  solitudes  and  places  for  meditation  which 
abound  in  this  old  city.  For  instance,  there  are  Dean's  Yard,  the 
Cloisters,  the  Abbey  itself;  there  is  the  quiet  and  secluded  Close, 
or  Place,  or  Retreat,  called  Cowley  Street;  there  is  the  south  side 
of  St.  James's  Park;  there  are,  however,  no  streets.  There  is  no 
Bond  Street,  no  Regent  Street,  no  Cheapside,  no  Thames  Street. 
Abingdon  Street,  formerly  Dirty  Lane,  presents  few  attractions; 
nor  does  Victoria  Street.  Better,  perhaps,  to  meditate  in  the 
Cloisters  than  to  sit  on  the  old  bed  among  the  baby-clothes  and 
broken  toys. 

Again,  some  young  wives  make  work  for  themselves ;  they 
love  housewifery  ;  they  enjoy  directing  and  arranging  and  man- 
aging ;  they  embroider  and  sew,  and  make  things  lovely  for  the 
house  ;  they  pay  many  calls  ;  they  read  and  study  diligently ; 
they  write  novels  ;  they  go  out  and  look  at  the  shops ;  they  prac- 
tise music ;  they  lie  down  and  bask  by  the  fire.  Margaret,  in 
ordinary  times,  did  all  these  things  ;  she  was  possessed  of  many 
accomplishments.  Now,  so  great  was  the  fear  that  possessed  her, 
she  could  do  nothing;  she  was  fain  to  climb  up  to  this  old  dis- 
mantled nursery,  with  the  remnants  and  remains  and  relics  of  the 
past  about  her,  and  to  think  of  the  motlicrs  and  the  children. 

We  cannot  get  rid  of  our  forefathers ;  she  understood  so 
much.  We  cannot  shake  tliem  off  even  if  we  would  ;  it  is  im- 
possible to  sever  tlie  past;  the  chain  cannot  be  cut.  The  fore- 
fathers still  live ;  they  still  try  to  make  us  act  as  they  themselves 


144  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

would  have  acted;  tliey  work  upon  us  by  the  temper  and  tlie  dis- 
position, the  inclinations  and  the  limitations,  the  quick  or  the 
sluggish  brain,  the  courage  or  the  cowardice,  the  quick  sight  or 
the  short  sight,  which  we  have  inherited  from  them.  These  are 
the  forces  of  tlie  past  acting  in  the  present.  Thus  are  all  the 
ages  one  long,  unbroken  chain.  Whither  would  Lucian's  an- 
cestors lead  him  ? 

She  opened  the  drawers  wlicre  lay  the  children's  clothes.  iShc 
took  them  out  and  unfolded  them.  Heavens!  How  beautiful 
they  were,  with  their  delicate  embroideries  and  the  patient,  skil- 
ful, fine  work  !  For  whom  were  they  made  ?  For  the  baby  des- 
tined for  Tyburn  tree?  For  the  baby  destined  for  madness?  For 
the  baby  who  was  to  be  the  Westminster  miser?  For  tlie  ^baby 
who  was  to  become  the  money-lender?  Sweet  children — inno- 
cent children  once — all  of  them.  And  now  these  baby-clothes 
belonged  to  her — to  her — and  this  nursery  was  liers.  She  laid 
back  the  things  with  a  deep  sigh,  llcr  eyes  fell  upon  the  half- 
opened  door  of  the  cupboard,  and  she  remembered  that  she  had 
never  examined  the  contents  of  the  cupboard  completely.  In 
front  there  stood  a  box  with  half  a  lid,  filled  with  the  broken 
dolls  and  toys  which  she  had  seen  on  her  first  visit.  In  other 
houses  this  rubbish  would  have  been  swept  away  long  ago.  In 
this  liouse  nothing  was  ever  destroyed  or  given  away  or  swept 
away.  To  a  miser  even  a  child's  doll  with  a  broken  leg  means 
the  equivalent  of  something  in  money. 

She  opened  the  door  and  looked  in.  The  cupboard  was  a  big 
place  formed  by  the  sloping  roof  and  a  party-wall  ;  such  a  place 
as,  in  many  Iiouses,  is  set  apart  for  a  box-room.  Behind  the 
door  were  hanging  three  or  four  women's  dresses  of  cheap  ma- 
terial, but  moth-eaten.  Margaret  took  them  down.  There  was 
no  use  in  keeping  them.  Behind  the  box  of  dolls  there  was  a 
heavy  box,  which  she  dragged  out  witli  some  difficulty ;  it  was 
not  locked,  and  it  contained  boys'  school-books.  There  was 
another  box  of  school-books;  there  was  a  box  containing  clothes 
of  some  kinds;  there  was  a  bundle  of  clothes  tied  up.  There 
were  other  bundles  and  boxes  ;  lastly,  when  Margaret  thought  she 
had  turned  out  the  whole  contents  of  the  cupboard  as  a  railway 
porter  clears  out  a  luggage-van,  she  saw  by  the  dim  light  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  cupboard  a  smaller  box  covered  with  a  lid.     It 


THE    BOX    OF    ACCOUNT-BOOKS  145 

was  quite  light  to  lift;  she  took  it  out,  placed  it  on  the  bed,  and 
lifted  the  lid,  which  was  not  locked.  Within  the  box  was  a  heap 
of  old  papers,  with  a  few  parchment-covered  books,  which  were 
household  account-books.  All  the  papers  in  the  house  had  been 
collected  and  taken  over  by  the  Solicitor  of  the  Treasury,  but 
this  cupboard  had  either  been  overlooked  or  had  been  imperfectly 
searched.  Probably  it  had  been  overlooked  altogether,  because 
the  dust  lay  thick  on  everything.  Moreover,  as  the  school-books 
showed,  and  these  account-books  presently  proved,  the  cupboard 
had  not  been  touched  for  more  than  seventy  years.  The  miser, 
who  could  not  bring  himself  to  destroy  anything,  put  away  these 
things  when  his  children  had  run  away  from  home  and  when  his 
wife  was  dead.  Then  he  left  the  garret  and  the  cupboard  and 
shut  the  door — and  so  it  had  remained  shut  for  seventy  years  and 
more,  until  Lucian  opened  the  door  and  Margaret  entered. 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  began  to  examine  the  contents  of 
tlic  box  with  a  languid  curiosity. 

She  first  took  up  a  household  account-book,  dated  1817.  It 
contained  a  kind  of  occasional  diary — not  day  to  day,  but  as 
things  happened — together  with  the  current  expenditure.  These 
details  are  dry  reading,  except  to  one  who  tries  to  revive  the  by- 
gone life;  to  him  there  is  not  an  entry  of  any  kind  which  is  not 
full  of  suggestion  and  meaning.  This  young  house-keeper  was  at 
first  struck  with  the  extraordinary  cheapness  of  living  when  the 
expenditure  is  ruled  by  a  miser.  In  the  marginal  notes,  record- 
ing events  of  the  day,  the  boys  gave  trouble.  They  spoke  re- 
belliously  of  their  father.  John,  the  eldest,  was  employed  in 
keeping  his  father's  books.  Apparently  he  was  in  his  father's 
confidence,  for  he  was  asked  to  plead  for  the  others.  Henry,  es- 
pecially, was  a  cause  of  anxiety.  He  spoke  mutinous  wurds  as 
regards  the  food  ;  he  called  it  fit  for  pigs  ;  he  wanted  money 
to  spend  as  other  young  men  could  do ;  he  wanted  new  and  bet- 
ter clothes,  such  as  other  young  men  are  allowed  to  wear ;  ho 
wanted  to  be  put  into  some  profession  ;  he  wanted  to  enter  the 
army;  he  was  always  wanting  something  that  would  cost  money; 
his  father  always  refused  ;  the  mother  interceded,  and  was  re- 
pulsed;  John  was  asked  to  do  what  he  could,  and  said  he  could 
do  nothinix,  because  what  Henry  wanted  would  cost  money. 
Then  came  the  significant  words  :  "  Henry  ran  away  from  Iiomo 

7 


146  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVAKICE 

in  the  niglit,  God  help  the  boy  !  His  father  only  said  tliorc 
was  one  raonth  the  less."  Tlie  house  went  on  meanwhile; 
wliether  she  was  bereft  of  her  children  or  not,  the  wife  must  keep 
the  liouse  going,  and  the  expenses  grew  daily  less  and  less,  or  the 
miser  grew  more  miserly.  There  were  notes  about  the  other 
boys.  "James  must  have  new  school-books.  He  cannot  get  the 
money  from  liis  father ;  nor  can  I ;  nor  can  John.  He  says  he 
sliall  do  as  Henry  did."  "  Lucinda  crying  over  licr  old  frock." 
"  Charles  refused,  to-day,  even  the  outward  forms  of  respect  to 
his  father — a  sad  scene  !"  "  Letter  from  Harry.  He  has  be- 
come an  actor.  I  cannot  approve  it;  but  his  father  drove  him 
away." 

The  entries  showed  a  household  managed  by  farthings.  They 
revealed  the  unha[)piness  of  the  family;  the  hard  father,  growing 
narrower  and  harder ;  the  brothers  kept  without  pocket-money, 
dressed  shabbily,  debarred  even  the  common  and  innocent  pleas- 
ures of  their  age  ;  the  daughter  grown  out  of  her  shabby  frock ; 
the  mother  striving  to  mitigate  the  unhappy  lot  of  her  children; 
and  the  eldest  brother  keeping  his  father's  books,  learning  how 
rich  he  was,  resolving  to  become  the  owner  and  disposer  of  so 
much  wealth,  and  learning  from  his  father  those  lessons  of  piti- 
less hardness  which  he  was  afterwards  to  practise  with  such  emi- 
nent success  on  his  own  account.  As  Margaret  read  in  the  book, 
she  realized  it  all ;  the  past  returned.  In  the  quiet  house  she 
could  hear  the  crying  of  the  girl  over  her  frock,  and  the  voice  of 
the  mother  trying  to  soothe  and  to  console,  and  the  growling  of 
the  miser  over  his  pence  like  the  growling  of  a  tiger  over  her 
bone. 

She  shut  up  the  book  with  a  sigh.  She  belonged  to  these  [)eo- 
plc ;  they  were  her  people;  whither  her  husband  should  go  she 
must  go;  where  he  should  lodge  she  must  lodge;  his  people 
must  be  her  people.  And,  as  Lucian  continually  repeated,  a  man 
may  call  himself  whatever  he  pleases,  but  his  ancestors  remain  to 
liim  ;  lie  cannot  shake  them  olT ;  he  belongs  to  them,  and  they  to 
him.  Wherefore  we  do  well  to  envy  those  of  honorable  descent; 
and  for  this  reason  wo  should  go  cautiously  lest  we  pollute  the 
fountain  of  Heaven,  and  make  the  water  which  our  children  must 
drink  a  spring  of  shame.  All  these  things,  and  more,  crowded 
into  Margaret's  mind.     And  because  it  was  the  nursery,  the  room 


TIIK    BOX    OF    ACCOUNT-BOOKS  147 

of  the  (lead  mothers,  if  she  suffered  her  mind  to  wander,  she  heard 
Avhispers  in  the  air — murmuring,  singing,  admonishing:  "You 
belong  to  us,  yon  and  yours;  you  cannot  separate  yourself,  or 
your  children  that  may  come,  from  us.  Your  children  will  be 
ours.  You  pretend  not  to  belong  to  us ;  yet  you  think  about 
us  day  and  night;  you  are  one  of  us  and  one  with  us." 


CHAPTER   XIX 
CALVERT    BURLEy's    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    MATTER 

Margaret  carried  her  box  of  liouscliold  books  down -stairs, 
and  resumed  licr  study  of  a  household  carried  on  under  the  eye 
of  a  miser  a  hundred  years  ago;  but  Lucian  refused  to  be  interest- 
ed. He  said  that  the  figures  had  a  hungry  and  starveling  look, 
and  that  he  was  not  desirous  of  learning  more  details  about  his 
great-grandfather.  Margaret,  however,  read  and  pondered  over 
these  books  until  she  realized  not  only  the  pinched  and  starved 
existence  of  the  mother  bereft  of  her  children,  one  after  the  otlier, 
but  also  the  daily  life  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  stretched 
without  change  into  a  third  part  of  the  nineteenth,  until  rail- 
ways and  steamboats  altered  the  whole  of  the  habitable  globe. 
Can  we  understand  a  time  so  close  to  us,  yet  so  far  away  ?  Con- 
sider. Everything  was  done  at  home ;  everything  was  made  at 
home.  There  is  an  enormous  difference,  to  begin  with.  The  bread, 
the  beer,  the  jam,  the  wine,  the  biscuits,  the  cakes,  the  preserving, 
the  strong  waters — all  were  made  at  home  ;  the  washing,  the  mend- 
ing, and  repairing  were  done  at  home.  A  housewife,  then,  was 
mistress  of  a  learned  profession  ;  she  followed  one  of  the  fine  arts. 

What  is  the  chief  difference,  however,  between  our  daily  life 
and  that  of  our  grandfathers?  There  are  small  differences  in 
manners,  deportment,  social  forms,  dress,  eating,  and  drinking. 
There  is  a  difference  in  the  standard  of  living,  which  is  now 
greatly  raised.  There  is  a  difference  in  our  knowledge  of  the 
world,  there  are  differences  due  to  our  habit  of  reading.  We 
have  grown  so  much  richer,  and  the  things  that  make  for  com- 
fort liave  become  so  much  cheaper,  that  this  is  natural.  We  are 
now  all  growing  poorer,  but  the  higher  standard  of  comfoit  as 
yet  remains.  There  arc  differences  in  our  religion;  there  are 
differences  in  our  morals;  there  are  differences  in  our  ideas  on 


CALVEKT    hurley's    ACCOUNT    OF    THK    MATTER  149 

things  of  state.  But  these  things  do  not  constitute  the  principal 
difference.  That,  I  think,  lies  in  the  altered  value  of  all  posses- 
sions. 

This  was  Margaret's  discovery  from  the  account -books  and 
the  marginal  notes.  We  of  this  degenerate  age  make  noth- 
ing; therefore  we  value  nothing.  We  have  no  possessions;  the 
things  that  we  want  we  buy ;  they  are  machine  -  made  things, 
mostly.  Who  cares  for  a  machine-made  watch  ?  When  we  had 
to  make  what  we  wanted  to  have,  or  to  buy  it,  with  money  labori- 
ously accumulated,  of  the  man  who  made  it  with  his  own  hands — 
a  watch,  a  chain,  a  table,  a  fender — then  we  valued  it  and  treated 
it  tenderly,  and  handed  it  down  to  our  successors,  and  called  it  a 
possession.  I  once  read  in  a  novel — I  was  compelled  to  read  it 
because  I  had  to  write  it — of  a  girl  named  Francesca,  who  had  a 
magic  knob  given  her  by  a  fairy  godmother.  This  she  pressed 
whenever  she  wanted  anything — and,  lo  !  a  miracle  ! — what  she 
wanted  was  instantly  brought. 

All  of  us  possess  a  magic  knob  of  sorts;  but  its  powers  vary 
to  an  incredible  extent.  A  pauper  lady,  for  instance,  may  press 
lier  knob  as  hard  as  she  likes  ;  it  commands  nothing  but  the  daily 
allowance  and  the  annual  shawl.  Others,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
amazingly  powerful.  And  I  hope  that  every  young  lady  who 
reads  these  lines  owns  a  magic  knob,  the  pressure  of  which  will 
bring  her  a  new  evening  dress,  new  gloves,  new  shoes,  or  anything 
that  she  wants.  The  magic  knob  applied  to  the  whole  of  the 
middle  class,  to  which  most  of  us  belong,  the  class  beloved  and 
admired  by  Matthew  Arnold — can  command  a  glass  of  beer,  a 
pot  of  jatn,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  many  other  useful  articles.  These 
things  come  to  us  ready-made,  turned  out  to  order  by  unseen 
work-people.  We  take  them,  pay  for  them,  and  give  no  heed  to 
them.  When  they  wear  out  we  buy  more.  Now,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century  all  these  things  were  made  at  home ;  there  was  a 
certain  uncertainty  as  to  the  result.  Would  the  beer  be  good  ? 
Last  brew  was  sour,  if  you  remember.  Would  the  jam  last 
through  the  winter?  Last  year's  developed  mildew,  if  you  re- 
member. Would  the  socks,  the  shirt,  the  collar,  fit?  If  the 
result  was  satisfactory,  there  was  pride.  In  any  case,  the  thing 
which  cost  time,  exercised  judgment,  showed  skill,  was  valuable 
and  valued.     This  dignified  housewifery.     The  modern   matron 


150  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

need  know  notliini^,  need  keep  nothing,  need  lay  down  nolliinir; 
she  wants  neither  wiiic-celhir,  nor  beer-cellar,  nor  larder,  nor  still- 
room,  nor  stores.  She  buys  as  she  wants,  and  replaces  as  she 
uses.     It  saves  trouble,  which  is  a  gain  ;  but  there  are  losses. 

Her  predecessor,  Margaret  learned,  provided  beforehand.  If 
anything  was  omitted,  the  lioiisehold  had  to  go  without.  The 
amount  of  knowledge  expected  of  the  ancient  housewife  was  co- 
lossal. One  can  only  compare  it  with  the  knowledge  at  present 
expected  of  the  oilman  and  his  assistant.  She  was  expected  to 
know  how  to  make  cakes,  puddings,  biscuits,  and  to  understand 
carving;  not  the  miserable  hacking  of  the  present  day,  but  scien- 
tific carving,  which  had  its  language.  She  must  know  pickling 
and  conserving,  in  an  age  when  they  pickled  everything,  even 
nasturtium  leaves.  She  must  know  how  to  distil  scents  and 
strong  waters.  She  could  make  wine  and  brew  beer.  She  could 
make  washes  for  the  complexion.  She  must  know  all  the  secrets 
of  the  laundry,  the  larder,  the  poultry-yard,  the  dairy,  the  kitch- 
en-garden, the  orcliard,  the  hot-houses;  the  making  and  repairing 
of  dresses — childish  and  feminine;  she  had  to  understand  music, 
dancing,  embroidery,  genealogies,  education,  alms-giving,  medi- 
cine, domestic  surgery,  and  nursing.  Finally,  the  housewife  of 
tlic  past  was  expected  to  take,  or  to  pretend,  an  intelligent  inter- 
est in  her  husband's  occupations.  Truly,  the  housewife  of  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  was  a  most  wonderful  product  of  the  age. 

Margaret  laid  down  the  books  with  a  profound  respect  and 
pity  for  the  writer  who  knew  so  much,  worked  so  hard,  and  was 
so  wretchedly  mated.  The  diurnal  broke  off  abruptly  on  a  cer- 
tain day.  It  was  then  carried  on  by  another  hand,  a  younger 
hand,  for  a  short  time.  Then  that  too  broke  off.  The  reason 
of  the  change,  Margaret  guessed,  was  the  illness  and  death  of  the 
mother.  The  second  hand  must  be  that  of  the  daughter,  Lu- 
cinda.  And  she,  like  lier  brothers,  liad  run  away.  AVhat  had 
become  of  Lucinda?  Lucian's  father  knew  nothing  about  her. 
Wliat,  again,  was  the  end  of  that  brother  who  became  an  actor? 
What  had  become  of  Charles,  the  third  son  of  this  remarkable 
family,  who  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  law  ?  Of  James  she 
had,  we  know,  been  recently  reminded.  I}ut  of  the  other  three 
no  word  had  yet  been  received.  Had  all  three  perished  without 
leaving  children  or  a  single  trace  of  their  memory  ? 


CALVERT    BURLEY  S    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    MATTER  151 

There  were  other  papers  in  the  box.  You  would  expect, 
perhaps,  in  such  a  house,  a  bag  of  guineas,  or  the  directions 
where  to  find  a  secret  hoard.  You  remember  how  the  miser  of 
old  hid  away  his  gold  in  odd  corners.  But  the  Westminster 
miser  was  a  modern  miser.  Hoarded  gold,  to  him,  meant  invest- 
ments. The  old  miser  gloated  over  his  chests  full  of  red  gold, 
chests  of  wood  with  iron  clamps;  he  used  to  lift  the  lid  and  run 
his  fingers  lovingly  through  the  coins.  The  modern  miser  pulls 
out  the  book  in  which  are  recorded  his  investments ;  and  he  gloats 
over  the  columns.  Margaret  found  no  secret  hoard  of  gold,  nor 
any  allusion  to  hidden  gold.  What  she  did  find,  however,  was 
sufticiently  interesting,  as  you  shall  learn. 

There  were,  to  begin  with,  certain  letters,  written  to  the  miser's 
wife ;  some  from  her  own  mother,  stiff  and  formal,  exhorting  her 
what  to  do  in  time  of  trouble ;  some  from  a  friend  who  wrote  to 
lier  from  the  country  on  religious  topics — it  was  a  time  wlien 
religious  conversation  was  an  art  greatly  practised  and  carefully 
studied.  This  friend  gave  her  advice  of  a  most  beautiful  kind  as 
regards  patience  under  trial ;  some  of  the  letters  were  from  her 
brother;  these  letters  also  turned  upon  the  necessity  of  resigna- 
tion in  trial  and  trouble.  All  proved  that  the  poor  woman  lived 
in  constant  trial  and  trouble.  All  were  the  work  of  people  to 
whom  letter-writing  was  not  a  thing  of  daily  use ;  they  were  writ- 
ten on  paper  of  the  same  size,  filled  up  carefully,  so  as  to  show  a 
genuine  desire  of  communicating  as  much  news  as  the  limits  of  the 
paper  allowed,  and  of  spending  as  long  a  time  as  possible  over  the 
composition  of  the  letter.  The  correspondence  was  not,  in  fact, 
remarkable,  except  as  an  evidence  of  the  style  and  fashion  of  the 
letter-writer  at  that  period — the  style  stilted  and  formal;  the 
fashion  ceremonious.  There  was  one  letter,  however,  which  in- 
terested her.  It  was  from  the  second  son,  Henry,  the  one  who 
began  the  running  away. 

"  Dear  and  Hon'd  Mother  [it  ran], — I  write  to  inform  you 
that  I  have  been  receiv'd  in  a  Company  of  Strolling  Players. 
Wc  play  in  a  Barn  to-night — my  Part,  Mcrcutio,  and  some 
others.  The  Work  is  Hard  and  the  Pay  is  Uncertain.  I  hope, 
however,  to  Advance  both  in  one  and  the  other.  No  Efforts  of 
mine  shall  be  wanting  for  Success,  which,  as  has  been  written, 


152  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

if  I  cannot  Achieve,  I  will  at  Least  Deserve.  On  tlic  play-bill 
I  am  described  as  Mr.  Henry  Bnrs^hlcy.  I  have  not  presuni'd 
to  drag  my  Fatlicr's  Name — and  My  Own — upon  the  Stage  with 
a  Strolling  Company.  I  do  not  Regret  the  Step  I  liave  taken, 
except  tliat  I  would  not  give  my  Mother  Pain,  The  miserly 
Habits  of  my  Father  made  it  Impossible  for  a  lad  of  Spirit  to  re- 
main in  the  House  any  Longer.  I  hope  that  your  tedious  Cough 
is  better,  and  that  you  can  now  mount  the  Stairs  without  Dis- 
tress, and  that  you  will  continue  in  good  Health  and  Spirits,  and 
that  wlicn  I  see  you  next  I  may  receive  your  Approbation  of 
my  Conduct. 

"I  remain,  dear  and  Hon'd  Mother, 

"  Your  most  dutiful  and  affectionate  Son, 

"  Henry." 

This  was  the  only  communication  from  any  of  her  children. 

The  rest  of  the  papers  seemed  to  be  recipes  of  all  kinds,  cliicfly 
for  puddings  and  highly  seasoned  sauces  which  this  housewife 
would  never  be  allowed  to  use,  as  being  expensive.  There  were 
also  written  charms  against  warts,  against  quinsy,  against  fits — 
pity  that  most  of  the  old  charms  have  perished  liopclcssly. 
Against  how  many  mischiefs  could  not  a  housewife  formerly 
protect  her  house,  lier  children,  and  herself  ?  And  there  were 
notes  on  the  treatment  of  children's  disorders,  and  especially  as 
to  chilblains,  colds,  earaches,  feverish  chills,  and  the  like. 

At  the  l)ottoin  of  the  box,  liowever,  she  found  a  small  packet 
of  papers  folded  up  and  tied  with  a  silk  ribbon.  Outside  was 
a  note  written  in  a  handwriting  difficult  at  first  to  read;  for  not 
only  was  it  small,  but  the  letters  were  pointed  instead  of  being 
round,  and  the  "  e's  "  were  like  "  o's  "  with  a  loop  at  the  top. 
It  ran  thus : 

"The  enclosed  was  writ  by  my  grandfather,  Calvert  Hurley,  in 
the  year  of  grace  175G,  being  twelve  months  after  the  melan- 
choly event  which  deprived  him  of  a  son  and  me  of  a  father,  in 
the  most  lamentable  manner  possible.  I  found  it  among  his 
papers  on  the  9th  day  of  March,  in  the  present  year  of  our  Lord, 
1768.  The  wrath  of  the  Lord  is  as  a  consuming  fire,  from 
which  nothing  can  escape;  it  wastes  not,  nor  is  it  spent  until  its 
work  of  woe  is  completed  to  the  last  letter.     On  account  of  the 


CALVERT  BURLEV  S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  MATTER       153 

transgressions  of  ruy  grandfather  follow  all  these  woes.  Therefore 
my  father  suflfered  a  shameful  death  :  for  this  cause  my  father's 
sister  was  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  her  beauty,  and  my  father's 
brother  was  kidnapped  or  destroyed.  What  is  reserved  for  me  ? 
I  am  in  the  Lord's  hands.  Let  the  Lord  deal  with  me  for  that 
transgression  as  He  will  upon  this  earth.  The  things  that  hap- 
pen to  us  here  soon  pass  away  and  are  forgotten ;  but  let  me 
save  my  soul  alive,  according  to  the  promise  made  unto  the 
Prophet  Ezekiel.  J.  C.  B. 

"  Nota  Bene. — My  grandfather  died  impenitent.  He  said  that 
he  had  sinned,  as  all  flesh  must  sin,  but  not  more  than  other  men. 
He  also,  with  his  latest  breath,  solemnly  thanked  the  Lord  for  the 
gifts  which  had  made  him  rich — God  is  not  mocked. 

"  J.  C.  B." 

Having  made  out  this  cheerful  preface,  Margaret,  with  some 
curiosity,  opened  the  packet  and  read.  The  handwriting  was 
large  and  bold,  and  as  assured  as  the  words  which  followed. 
Handwriting  is  supposed,  by  some,  to  be  a  test  of  character;  this, 
in  some  unexplained  way,  it  seems  to  be — perhaps  because  the 
way  in  which  a  man  speaks,  stands,  walks,  writes,  looks,  or  does 
anything  at  all,  betrays  his  character  to  those  who  can  read  the 
language  of  gesture  and  look.  If  the  theory  is  true,  then  Calvert 
Burley  was  a  man  with  a  huge,  an  enormous,  belief  in  himself. 
Such  a  man — he  is  more  common  than  one  would  think — 'can  do 
nothing  wrong.  If  his  actions  appear  to  others  always  dictated 
by  self-interest,  to  him  they  are  never  without  the  excuse  of  the 
highest  and  holiest  of  motives.  Tlie  meanest  thing  that  a  man 
can  do  is  described  by  him  as  the  holy  act  of  a  Christian.  The 
greatest  crime  he  explains  by  the  noblest  and  most  conscientious 
scruples. 

The  document  was  written  on  coarse  white  paper,  and  the  ink 
was  brown.     It  ran  thus  : 

"  I  have  been  assured  by  some  Meddlers  and  Busybodies  that 
God's  Wrath  has  been  Poured  out  upon  me  on  account  of  cer- 
tain former  Passages  in  my  Life.  I  have  endured  Reproach  on 
this  Account,  by  men  pretending  to  be  Godly,  and  also  from  my 
Deceased  Wife,  wliosc  tender  Spirit  was  unal)le  to  endure  the 
7* 


154  BEYOND  THE  DKKAMS  OF  AVAUICE 

Disasters  which  have  affected  us.  In  thciii  slic  saw  Manifest  tlic 
Revenge  taken  by  the  Almighty  on  account  of  iny  past  Life.  I 
say  not  that  these  repeated  shocks  were  not  Ordered  by  a  Wise 
Providence  for  Purposes  wliicli  I  cannot  Understand,  but  as  my 
Life  has  always  been  beyond  Reproach,  I  cannot  regard  tlieni  as. 
Expressions  of  God's  Wrath.  Tliercforc  my  Design  is  to  lay 
bare,  for  the  Instruction  of  all  who  may  come  after  Me,  the  Facts 
of  the  Case  on  which  my  Departed  Wife  and  others  have  igno- 
rantly  pronounced  a  Judgement.  Bnt  let  me  Rehearse  these  so- 
called  Judgements;  and,  next,  let  me  also  set  against  them  the 
Manifest  Mercies  and  Blessings  which  have  been  Poured  upon 
my  unworthy  Head.  And  first  as  for  the  Judgements.  It  is  true 
that  I  who  had  once  three  Fair  Children,  have  now  none.  First 
my  younger  Boy,  a  child  of  Twelve,  went  out  to  School — the 
said  School  lying  no  more  than  two  Streets  distance — and  never 
reached  that  School,  and  was  never  seen  again  by  us.  lie  was 
therefore  tempted  away  and  either  Kidnapped  or  Murdered. 
This  was,  I  own,  a  Dreadful  Blow.  But  it  was  shown,  I  am 
quite  certain,  that  this  attiiction  was  not  a  Special  Judgement, 
nor  did  it  indicate  the  Special  Displeasure  of  the  Lord,  over 
and  above  that  which  falls  upon  the  general  sinner,  because  at 
the  same  time  I  bought  of  the  widow  Plumer  that  land  in  Mary- 
lebone  (for  a  song)  which  is  now  covered  with  houses. 

"  Next,  there  was  my  Daughter,  a  blooming  Girl  of  Seven- 
teen, whose  Charms  were  designed  (I  thought)  for  the  happi- 
ness of  some  young  man  of  Quality  (as  I  ventured  to  hope), 
who  would  be  tempted  not  only  by  the  beauty  of  her  Person, 
but  also  by  the  Portion  which  I  was  ready  to  bestow  upon  her. 
Thus  I  hoped  to  raise  my  family,  which  was  of  humble  Origin. 
Alas!  She  caught  Small-Pox  and  died  in  a  fortnight.  With 
her  these  Hopes  were  Buried.  At  the  same  time  (which  for- 
bids the  suspicion  or  Fear  of  a  Judgement)  by  a  lucky  Stroke 
I  acquired  (a  Special  Blessing)  the  first  of  those  Navy  Con- 
tracts by  which  my  Fortune  has  been  more  than  doubled. 

"  Lastly,  my  Elder  Son,  who  had  from  Childhood  given 
Trouble,  for  he  would  never  apply  his  Mind  to  Study,  nor 
would  he  learn  under  me  how  to  get  the  better  of  Weak  or 
Credulous  Persons  so  as  to  transfer  their  Money  to  his  own 
I'ockcts,  but  would   continually  Sing,  make   idle   Music,  F(!ast, 


CALVERT    BURLEY  S    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    MATTER  155 

Paint,  and  Spend.  After  a  course  of  profligacy  in  which  I  did 
my  best  to  Warn  and  Dissuade  liim,  he  madly  went  out  to  rob  a 
noble  Lord,  and  being  Captured  and  Laid  by  the  Heels,  was 
presently  Hanged — a  Disgraceful  Event,  and  one  that  Dashed 
all  our  rising  Cheerfulness.  At  the  same  time  a  Signal  Favor 
was  bestowed  upon  me  by  the  Lord  in  the  fact  that  a  violent 
tempest  blowing  over  the  Channel,  on  the  very  day  when  that 
unhappy  Boy  suffered,  wrecked  a  large  number  of  Ships  be- 
longing to  the  Port  of  London,  while  two  of  my  richest  Bot- 
toms found  Shelter  in  the  Scilly  Roads.  Thus  was  I  singled 
out  for  marks  of  Approbation  at  the  time  of  my  greatest  Afflic- 
tion. 

"Of  these  three  events,  the  first  and  second  were  accidents 
which  clearly  belong  to  the  changes  and  chances  of  this  mortal 
life — In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.  We  know  not,  even 
for  the  youngest  and  strongest,  what  may  happen.  y\s  for  the 
third  Event,  the  parents  of  this  unhappy  Young  Man  may  re- 
proach themselves  with  a  too  lenient  and  easy  Up-Bringing.  So 
far  I  Bow  the  Head  and  acknowledge  my  fault.  But  the  whole 
course  of  that  young  Man  seemed  like  a  Kcsolvc  in  mad  Haste  to 
reach  the  Gallows.  And  I  have  shown  that  each  so-called  Judge- 
ment was  accompanied  by  a  blessing  much  more  manifest — and, 
I  make  Bold  to  Declare,  much  more  Deserved. 

"  Why  should  the  hand  of  the  Lord  be  heavier  upon  me  than 
upon  any  other  sinner? 

"  I  have  said,  above,  that  it  was  whispered,  nay,  spoken  aloud, 
on  'Change  that  this  or  that  Misfortune  has  happened  to  me  as  a 
Punishment  for  my  Treatment  or  Conduct  towards  my  late  Mas- 
ter, Mr.  Scudamore. 

"  I  was  a  poor  lad,  son  of  a  mere  Fellowship  Porter,  my  moth- 
er's brothers  being  Watermen,  and  my  own  fate,  apparently,  to 
be  of  no  better  station  in  the  world  than  they.  But,  being  no- 
ticed by  Mr.  Scudamore,  then  a  gentleman  of  reputation,  and  hav- 
ing a  good  liusincss  in  the  City  and  supposed  to  be  worth  Thirty 
Thousand  Pounds  at  least,  I  was  by  him  taken  into  his  office, 
where  I  was  first  a  boy  at  his  call,  to  run  Arrants  and  to  carry 
messages.  I  then  became  a  clerk  in  his  counting-lionsc.  By  the 
time  I.  had  reached  five-and-twenty  I  was  entirely  in  liis  confi- 
dence, and  managed  all  his  business  of  every  kind,  and  lie,  being 


156  BEYOND    TIIK    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

nn  easy  man,  and  pleased  to  be  saved  trouble,  and  £^rowin<;  fonder 
of  the  coffee-house  than  'Change,  suffered  me  to  go  on  unques- 
tioned, and  to  do  what  I  pleased  and  what  I  thought  best  in  his 
interests.  This  was  so  well  known  that  Merchants  treated  me 
with  the  same  Openness  as  if  I  was  my  Master — a  lucky  circum- 
stance for  me,  inasmuch  as  it  taught  me  much  concerning  trade, 
and  made  acquaintances  for  me  who  afterwards  became  useful. 

"  I  can  boast  truthfully  that  during  the  time  that  I  thus  man- 
aged my  Master's  business  it  prospered  and  increased.  Naturally 
I  became  discontented — who  would  not? — seeing  that  I  did  all 
the  work  and  my  Master  reaped  the  whole  Harvest.  Many  fac- 
tors and  clerks  and  servants  do  not  consider  this  hardship,  and 
continue  to  work  zealously  to  the  end  of  their  lives,  being  pinched 
and  living  hardly,  so  that  their  Masters  may  increase  and  grow 
fat.  I  was  not  so  disposed.  As  soon  as  1  had  gained  one  step 
I  desired  to  take  another.  I  would  still  be  rising — I  desired  ar- 
dently to  become  a  Master. 

"The  opportunity  came  in  the  Way  I  shall  relate.  At  this 
time  there  broke  out  the  Madness  known  as  the  South-Sea  Bub- 
ble. Now  I  have  ever  possessed  to  a  Singular  Degree  the  Power 
of  Discerning  the  Future  as  regards  the  Rise  and  Fall  of  Stocks 
and  Shares.  And  at  the  outset  of  this  Affair  I  clearly  perceived 
that  there  would  surely  follow  a  Vast  Increase  in  the  Price  of 
this  and  other  Stocks ;  and  I  longed  to  be  Trading  in  them — at 
first  I  thought  in  a  small  way  in  order  to  better  my  humble  fort- 
ime.  But  in  order  to  begin  one  must  have  cither  Money  or  Cred- 
it. Of  these  had  I  Neither.  Therefore,  I  perceived  that  in  order 
to  attain  my  Object  1  must  Secretly  make  Use  of  some  of  the 
Money  belonging  to  my  Master,  as  it  passed  through  my  Hands. 
This  was  difficult,  because  he  had  a  Running  Credit  with  a  Gold- 
smith of  Lombard  Street.  However,  I  devised  a  Plan  which  was 
Ingenious  and  Honest.  I  would  but  borrow  the  sum  of  £400 
to  begin  with.  Therefore  I  persuaded  (very  Easily)  my  Master 
to  consent  to  purchase  South-Sea  Stock.  He  agreed  to  buy  at 
130  about  £12,000  worth  of  Stock — i.e.,  about  £9230  in  shares. 
As  at  this  moment  it  was  advancing  rapidly,  I  bought  £10,000 
one  day,  of  which  £400  worth,  or  £390  of  stock,  I  bought  in  my 
own  name.  By  this  means  I  was  enabled  to  obtain  a  small  sum 
for  myself,  and  to  secure  for  him  the  stock  which  he  desired  to 


CALVERT    BURLEY's    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    MATTER  157 

buy.  In  the  end,  as  you  shall  see,  I  faithfully  repaid  that  ad- 
vance of  £400. 

"  How,  then,  did  we  stand  ?  I  had  three  Shares  at  £130  each 
— my  Master  held  92  shares.  On  my  Advice  he  sold  them  out 
at  200.  He  therefore  made  a  Profit  of  £70  a  Share,  or  £6440 
in  all.  Ought  not  this  man  to  have  been  Satisfied  with  me,  his 
faithful  Steward  ?  At  the  same  time  I  sold  mine  at  the  same 
profit,  and  replaced  the  loan,  and  was  £210  in  pocket.  Then,  as 
I  Pointed  out,  which  was  quite  true,  the  Stock  was  still  going  up 
— he  agreed  to  Buy  in  again.  This  time  he  would  Buy  about 
£18,000  worth,  the  Stock  then  standing  at  250.  I  did  the  same 
thing  as  before.  That  is,  I  bought  six  Shares  for  myself  and  60 
for  him.  A  week  later,  the  Shares  having  gone  up  to  500,  I  Sold 
all  out,  and  he  made  a  Profit  of  cent,  per  cent.  As  for  me,  I  did 
very  well.  For  I  Replaced  my  Second  Loan  of  £1500,  and 
found  myself  the  Possessor  of  £1710  —  far  more  than  ever  I 
Thought  to  own.  This  was  all  in  the  Early  Spring.  But  as 
the  year  advanced,  the  Stock  went  Leaping  up.  I  Played  the 
same  Game  always.  Borrowing  and  always  Repaying,  and  Grow- 
ing, for  one  of  such  Small  Origin,  every  week  Richer  and  Richer. 

"  Then  came  the  Time  when  I  perceived  very  clearly  that  the 
Price  must  Fall,  and  that  Suddenly  and  Deeply ;  now  by  this 
my  Master  was  Maddened,  like  many  others,  with  the  business, 
and  looked  for  Nothing  Less  than  to  see  the  Shares  rise  to 
Thousands.  Tiicir  highest  Price  was  990.  My  Master  was  eager 
to  buy  more.  Next  day  they  Fell.  He  was  persuaded — not  by 
me — to  Hold  on.  They  Fell  lower  and  lower.  They  Fell  from 
990  to  150.  And  my  Master,  who  had  Bought  in  from  600  (or 
thereabouts)  to  990,  Lost  his  All.  I,  for  my  part,  who  had  been 
Buying  in  and  Selling  out  (so  as  to  replace  the  various  loans), 
and  always  making  my  profit  on  each  Transaction,  Finally  Sold 
out  at  990.  The  last  shares  my  Master  Bought  were  mine,  but 
he  knew  it  not  till  afterwards.  And  the  end  (to  nic)  was  a  Mod- 
est Fortune  or  competence,  a  Capital  Stock  for  embarkation  in 
Trade  of  about  £22,500.  This  is  the  history  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness. My  Master  went  mad,  like  the  rest  of  the  Natives.  I  kept 
my  Wits  about  me.  He  continued  in  his  madness.  I  sold  out. 
Remember  that  each  Loan  as  I  made  it  was  paid  back  the  next 
day,  or  a  few  days  after,  by  the  Differences   which   I  had  the 


158  DEYOND    THE    DIIEAMS    OF    AVARICE 

Power  (under  Providence)  to  foretell.  Who  can  Blame  nic? 
Was  not  the  good  success — the  wonderful  success — of  my  A'cnt- 
ure  a  mark  of  Special  Blessing?  But  this  my  dear  Wife  could 
never  understand. 

"Having  Lost  his  All,  my  Master  was  ruined.  It  lias  been 
Objected  that  I  should  have  Come  to  his  Assistance.  But  in  the 
City  of  London  Gratitude  is  never  suffered  to  interfere  with 
Business,  I  Plainly  Told  him  that  I  must  look  after  Myself. 
When,  shortly  after  this,  he  went  into  the  Fleet,  his  wife  and" chil- 
dren asked  my  Help.  I  gave  it.  On  many  occasions  I  have  giv- 
en them  sums  of  money — a  half-crown  here  and  another  there. 
I  am  not  to  Blame  if  the  Woman  went  mad  and  the  i\Ian  died  of 
rage  at  his  III  Fortune  (Foolishly  Cursing  Me,  as  if  I  was  the  Cause 
of  his  Sufferings),  nor  can  I  be  Blamed  if  his  Children  (through 
their  Father's  Folly)  Became  I  know  not  What— Thieves  and  the 
Companions  of  Thieves. 

"  This  is  the  Plain  History  of  the  Events  which,  according  to 
my  Detractors,  have  Brought  upon  me  the  Judgements  of  the 
Lord. 

"On  the  other  Hand,  have  not  His  Blessings  been  abundantly 
Showered  upon  me?  Have  I  not  Risen  from  a  plain  Poor  Boy 
to  be  a  great  City  Merchant,  an  Adventurer  in  Foreign  Ports, 
one  whose  Word  is  powerful  on  'Change,  the  Owner  at  this  mo- 
ment, when  I  am  past  Sixty  Years  of  Age,  of  a  Hundred  Thou- 
sand Pounds  and  More?  Are  not  these  things  Plain  Mercies? 
AVould  they  have  been  bestowed  upon  One  who,  as  has  been 
Falsely  alleged,  rose  by  robbing  his  Master  and  drove  liim  to 
Bankruptcy,  and  Suffered  hira  to  Die  in  the  Fleet? 

"Calvert  Burlev." 


CHAPTER  XX 
LUCIAN    ON    THE    DOCUMENT 

Margaret  made  haste  to  place  this  docninent  in  Lucian's 
hands,  lie  read  it  with  great  interest;  he  read  it  twice.  He 
then  folded  it  and  returned  it  to  his  wife. 

"  Well,  Lncian,  what  do  you  say  ?" 

He  made  answer  slowly  : 

"Calvert  Barley's  Coininontary  on  Himself  possesses  several 
points  of  interest.  It  is  the  revelation  of  an  eighteenth-century 
soul.  First  we  have  the  poor  boy  —  clever,  sharp,  and  resolved 
to  get  on  if  he  could — to  climb  out  of  the  servitude  and  obscu- 
rity of  his  people.  I  fancy  there  was  very  little  ("limbing  in 
those  days.  Where  the  child  was  born,  there  he  grew  up,  and 
there  he  remained.  Well,  this  boy  had  the  good  -  luck  to  get 
into  favor  with  a  master  who  was  clearly  a  man  of  weak  nature; 
for  he  gave  tliis  sharp  lad,  gradually,  the  niunagemcnt  of  all  liis 
affairs.  The  lad  looked  about  him,  watching  the  markets  and 
the  stocks.  I  suppose  that  lie  grew  extremely  keen  to  foresee 
the  probable  rise  and  fall.  Some  men  have  a  kind  of  pro- 
phetic instinct  in  such  things.  At  last  came  the  opportunity. 
In  order  to  seize  it,  he  had  to  be  a  villain — about  this  I  don't 
imagine  there  was  much  diflSculty.  The  finer  shades  of  honor 
were  not  likely  to  be  regarded  by  such  a  young  man  as  this. 
The  rest  followed  naturally.  He  ruined  his  master,  and  enriched 
himself — he  tells  us  how.  Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  helping 
the  fallen,  and  he,  therefore,  allowed  his  master  to  die  in  jail. 
A  very  complete  villain  !" 

"A  horrible  villain  !" 

"  Wait  a  little.  Having  become  rich,  he  must  become  respect- 
able. He  marries  a  wife  from  the  ranks  of  the  City  madams; 
in  order  to  become  respectable,  he  goes  to  church.     No — that  is 


160  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

wrong — he  had  always  been  to  church  ;  it  used  to  be  part  of  the 
City  discipline  —  honest  lads  or  villains,  all  went  to  church. 
Formerly,  however,  he  sat  in  the  least  eligible  scats.  Now  he 
occupies  a  pew  under  the  pulpit,  and  his  boy  carries  his  prayer- 
book  after  him  up  the  aisle.  His  wifu  talks  the  language  of  re- 
ligion, such  as  it  was — the  religion  of  the  Queen  Anne  time." 

"  Was  it  unlike  our  own  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  Calvert  shows  us  himself  that  it  was  a  time 
when  blessings  and  the  approval  of  the  Lord  meant  success  in 
trade,  and  when  afflictions  were  regarded  as  indicating  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  Lord.  Very  good.  JIc  prospered  exceedingly. 
Being  already  rich,  he  could  afford  to  be  honest.  Yet,  we  see, 
there  were  murmurs  about  the  beginnings.  Presently  the  trou- 
bles fell  upon  him,  one  after  the  other.  Then  the  murmurs  be- 
came whispers,  and  the  whispers  voices  of  accusation,  which  he 
lieard.  And  in  the  end,  to  set  his  conscience  at  rest  by  a  kind 
of  balance-sheet  familiar  to  the  commercial  soul,  he  wrote  this 
narrative.  Of  course,  it  stands  to  reason,  if  Heaven's  displeasure 
is  shown  in  some  calamity.  Heaven's  approval  is  marked  by  long- 
continued  success.  Thus,  his  eldest  son  becomes  a  profligate ; 
marries  an  heiress ;  spends  her  money  ;  goes  on  the  road ;  is 
hanged.  Very  sad,  indeed.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  during 
that  young  man's  career  how  many  cargoes  safely  landed  !  IIow 
many  glorious  successes  on  'Change  !  Then  his  daughter  dies  of 
small-pox.  What  for?  Why  ask,  since  on  that  same  day  his 
ship  alone,  of  all  the  fleet,  rode  out  the  storm  ?  His  younger 
boy  is  kidnapped.  Horrible!  In  punishment  for  what  crime? 
What,  indeed,  when  another  large  slice  was  added  on  that  same 
day  to  his  great  fortune?  Therefore,  as  the  years  ran  on,  lie 
grows  more  satisfied  with  himself.  For  some  unknown  sins,  per- 
haps of  his  wife,  perhaps  of  the  last  generation  of  Fellowship 
porters,  these  things  have  been  allotted  to  him.  But  for  himself 
it  is  one  unbroken  career  of  Heaven's  approval  and  manifest 
blessing.     There,  Margaret,  is  my  reading  of  this  history." 

He  sat  down.  "  There  are  people,  I  believe,  even  now,  wlio 
think  in  the  same  way.  A  dangerous  wa}' — to  look  for  guid- 
ance from  without  instead  of  within.  Well,  I  said  that  I 
should  like  to  hear  Calvert  Burley's  account  of  himself,  and  I 
have  had  my  desire.     My  dear,  it  used  to  be  considered  unlucky 


LUCIAN    ON    THE    DOCUMENT  161 

to  speak  ill  of  ancestors.  But  this  Calvert  Burley  really  was  a 
detestable  person." 

"And  the  misfortunes  fell  —  if  not  on  liim,  for  he  could  not 
feel  thera — on  his  children  and  on  his  grandchildren," 

"  They  did.  Very  great  misfortunes,  too.  Tyburn  Tree  and 
madness — a  miser  and  a  money-lender.  Everybody  got  what  he 
deserved — sometimes  what  he  desired." 

Margaret  shook  her  head. 

"Once  more.  Remember  what  the  Prophet  Ezekicl  says: 
'  The  son  shall  not  bear  the  iniquity  of  the  father.''  You  will 
listen  to  tliat  authority,  I  believe,  my  child." 

"  Well,  Lucian,  if  the  son,  or  the  grandson,  takes  over  and  en- 
joys the  harvest  of  iniquity,  he  becomes  a  sharer  in  the  guilt." 

"The  harvest,  the  stored-up  granaries,  the  result  of  iniquities 
— you  see,  Madge,  that  you  beg  the  whole  question.  Take  this 
Burley  estate.     IIow  much  of  it  is  the  harvest  of  iniquity?" 

"  All  of  it." 

"Nay.  The  Westminster  miser  saved  ;  he  did  not  commit  any 
iniquities,  lie  saved,  and  he  left  nearly  lialf  a  million.  That 
alone  at  compound  interest  would  mount  up  to  many  millions. 
How  mnch  of  the  rest  is  due  to  the  dancing-cribs,  to  the  gara- 
bling-hell,  to  the  money-lending?  Perhaps  the  old  man  lost 
money  on  all  three.  If  the  grandson,  my  dear,  were  to  take  over 
that  estate,  he  would  take  it  free  from  any  liability  on  account  of 
old  injuries." 

Margaret  looked  up.  She  would  have  answered ;  but  on  Lu- 
cian's  face  there  lay  that  look  of  masterful  resolution  which  made 
the  portrait  of  Calvert  Burley  so  remarkable.  Lucian,  at  times, 
was  strangely  like  the  builder  and  founder  of  the  House — the  son 
of  the  Fellowship  porter. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
LUCINDA  AVERY 

"  An  old  woman  ?"  Margaret  looked  up  from  her  work. 
"  What  old  woman  ?     And  what  does  she  want?" 

"  She  won't  say  her  business,"  replied  the  maid.  "  Savs  she 
wants  to  see  the  lad}-  of  the  house.  She's  an  old  woman  out  of 
a  workhouse." 

Margaret  went  out.  She  found  an  old  woman  in  workhouse 
costume  standing  on  the  door-mat.  She  was  a  thin,  frail-looking 
old  woiian ;  she  had  been  tall,  but  now  walked  with  stooping 
shoulders.  Her  face  was  pinched  and  pale  ;  not  a  face  made 
coarse  with  drink  and  vice  ;  a  face  made  for  pride,  but  spoiled 
bjf  humility.  She  courtesied  humbly  when  the  lady  of  the  house 
appeared.  And  she  stood  with  her  arms  folded  under  her  shawl, 
as  one  who  waits  to  be  ordered.  She  looked  meek,  even  beyond  the 
assumed  meekness  of  the  most  accom[)Iislicd  pretender  in  a  wliole 
workhouse,  and  yet  she  was  picturcsqno,  with  a  great  mass  of  iron- 
gray  hair  that  had  once  been  black,  and  eyes  that  were  still  black. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  Margaret  asked  her. 

"  I've  read  something  in  a  paper,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  A 
lady  in  the  House  had  it  and  lent  it  to  me."  She  unfolded  her 
arms  and  produced  from  somewhere  a  newspaper.  "  I  read  it  a 
week  ago,  and  thought — if  I  was  to  call — " 

"  Let  me  read  the  paragraph,"  said  Margaret. 

It  was  one  of  the  thousand  paragraphs  on  the  Burley  estate, 
and  it  ran  as  follows  : 

"  The  liouse  where  the  great  Burley  property  was  amassed  is 
situated  in  Great  College  Street.  It  is  now  No.  77.  It  is  re- 
ported to  have  been  built  by  the  same  Calvert  Burley  who  heads 
the  genealogy  compiled  and  published  by  us  the  other  day.     It 


LUCINDA    AVERY  163 

is  now  occupied  by  a  physician  whose  surname,  by  a  curious  co- 
incidence, is  the  same  as  the  Christian  name  of  its  builder.  Dr. 
Lucian  Calvert  took  the  house  with  the  furniture  as  it  stood. 
Among  the  things  preserved  are  the  portraits  of  nearly  all  those 
persons  who  arc  mentioned  in  the  genealogy.  It  was  a  connnon 
practice  in  the  last  century  to  adorn  the  house  with  the  portraits 
of  all  the  members  of  the  family — a  custom  which  photography 
has  been  largely  instrumental  in  abolishing.  Thus,  even  the  chil- 
dren of  the  celebrated  miser  were  painted  as  soon  as  they  arrived 
at  man's  estate.  The  total  disappearance,  or  extinction,  of  so 
large  a  family  with  so  many  branches  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able facts  in  family  history  ever  known.  Up  to  the  present  mo- 
ment, we  learn  that  only  two  among  the  many  hundreds  of  claim- 
ants profess  to  belong  to  the  miser.  One  is  an  American  lady 
who  calls  herself  the  granddaughter  of  the  miser's  youngest  son, 
and  the  other  is  an  English  claimant  who  announces  himself  as 
the  grandson  of  the  second  son.  These  claims  have  either  not 
been  so  far  established  or  are  as  yet  only  just  sent  in.  Surely,  one 
would  think,  there  should  be  little  ditllculty  in  establishing  and 
proving  one's  own  grandfather.  Even  if  a  nephew  or  grandncphew 
should  ultimately  turn  up,  the  fact  that  so  vast  an  estate  should 
remain  so  long  without  an  undoubted  heir  will  remain  as  a  most 
remarkable  fact." 

"Well?"  Margaret  gave  back  the  paper.  "You  did  not  come 
here,  I  am  sure,  just  to  show  me  that  paper." 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  did  not.  I  came  here  hoping  that  perhaps  yon 
wouldn't  mind  showing  me  those  pictures."  She  spoke  with  the 
greatest  humility,  but  her  manner  of  speech  was  better  than  one 
generally  associates  with  a  workhouse  dress. 

"Yes;  but  will  you  tell  me  why  you  want  to  see  them?" 

"  It's  because  some  of  them  may  be  mother's  brothers."  Mar- 
garet showed  some  natural  sur[)rise.  "  It's  quite  true,  lady.  My 
name  is  Avery  —  Lucinda  Avery — and  my  mother's  name  before 
she  married  was  Lucinda  Burley.  And  she  was  born  in  this 
house.  It's  quite  true,  lady,"  she  repeated.  "  Mother  was  born 
in  this  very  house.     I  know  she  was." 

"  You  say  that  you  are  the  daughter  of  Lucinda  Cnrley.  Can 
you  prove  what  you  say  ?" 


164         nEVOND  THE  dkeams  of  avarice 

"  Oh  yes,  lady,  I've  got  proofs." 

"  This  is  very  strange.  But  come  in."  Margaret  sliut  the 
street  door.     "  Now  sit  down  and  tell  mc  more  about  it." 

The  old  woman  sat  down  on  one  of  the  hall  chairs.  "  What 
am  I  to  tell  you  ?"  she  asked,  simply.  "  Mother's  name  was  Lu- 
cinda  Burley." 

"  Yes ;  there  was  a  Lucinda  Burlcy.  Can  you  tell  me  some- 
thing more  ?" 

"  Mother  ran  away  from  her  home — this  was  the  house.  She's 
often  and  often  talked  to  mc  about  the  house  —  this  was  the 
house.  She  ran  away  from  home  because  she  was  unhappy.  Iler 
father  was  a  dreadful  miser,  and  wanted  them  to  be  as  miserly  as 
himself.  They  could  hardly  get  enough  to  eat.  She  liad  broth- 
ers, and  they  ran  away,  too,  one  by  one,  all  but  the  eldest  — this 
was  the  house.  So,  when  her  mother  died,  she  ran  away  too,  and 
married  father." 

"Yes.     What  was  your  father?" 

"Father  was  a  gentleman."  The  old  woman  held  np  ])cr  hcAd 
with  the  least  possible  approach  to  the  gesture  called  bridling. 
Not  every  resident,  if  you  please,  in  her  college  could  boast  of  a 
gentleman  for  a  father.     "  He  was  a  gentleman,"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes.  A  good  many  men  are  gentlemen,  nowadays.  What 
was  his  business?" 

"  He  hadn't  got  any.  He  was  called  Captain  Avery.  And  he 
v?as  once  in  the  army.  Mother  always  called  him  the  Captain. 
He  was  a  very  handsome  man.  Mother  loved  liim,  though  lie 
threw  away  his  money — and  he  wasn't  a  good  man." 

"  He  was  Captain  Avery,"  Margaret  repeated.  "  And  he 
threw  away  his  money.     And  then?" 

"  When  he  had  no  more  left,  they  took  him  to  prison.  It  was 
the  Fleet  Prison — I  remember  it  very  well,  and  father  in  it.  He 
died  in  the  prison." 

"  Oh  !     And  this  was  the  way  that  you  became  poor?" 

"  Yes.  Mother  was  poor.  Don't  you  believe  me,  lady  ?" 
She  looked  up  with  some  anxiety.  "  Indeed,  it  is  the  truth,  and 
nothing  else." 

"  Why  should  it  not  be  the  truth  ?  I  am  not  disbelieving 
you." 

"  I've  got  the  proofs,  lady."     The  old  woman  produced  from 


LUCINDA    AVERY  165 

unseen  recesses  a  little  parcel  wrapped  in  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
"This  is  a  picture  of  mother,  made  wlien  she  first  married; 
wlien  she  was  young — poor  mother!" — her  voice  faltered.  "I 
never  remember  lier  like  this — not  so  young  and  beautiful." 

Margaret  took  the  drawing,  which  showed  just  the  face  and 
head.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  the  face.  They  all  have  it; 
you  have  the  face." 

It  was  a  charming  little  picture,  representing  a  beautiful  girl, 
with  something  of  a  Spanish  air,  dark -eyed,  dark -haired.  And 
the  poor  faded  daughter  bore  still  some  resemblance  to  the  beau- 
tiful young  mother. 

"  You  all  have  the  same  face,"  Margaret  repeated. 

"  I  never  saw  her  so."  The  old  woman  wrapped  it  up  again 
in  her  handkerchief  and  put  it  back.  "But  I  like  to  look  at  it 
sometimes ;  just  to  think  of  her  as  I  never  saw  her.  She  looks 
happy  in  her  picture — I  never  saw  her  happy.  The  picture  was 
done  by  a  friend  of  father's.  He  died  in  the  Fleet,  too.  I  re- 
member him  very  well,  because  he  had  a  bottle-nose  —  mother 
said  it  was  rum.  But  a  lovely  painter,  mother  said,  and  good 
company,  and  sang  a  good  song." 

"  It  is  certainly  the  portrait  of  Lucinda  Burley,"  said  Margaret. 
"I  will  show  you  the  pictures,  if  you  please  to  come  up -stairs 
with  me." 

The  old  woman's  breath  was  bad  ;  she  mounted  the  stairs  with 
difficulty;  when  she  reached  the  drawing-room  she  was  fain  to 
sit  down  and  gasp.  Margaret  sat  her  down  before  the  fire,  and 
waited.  She  looked  timid  and  humble;  with  the  timidity  and 
the  humility  that  come  of  life-long  obedience  to  the  man  with 
the  bag;  of  never  exercising  any  power  or  authority  at  all.  Fur 
example,  a  woman  who  had  been  a  mother  could  not  have  that 
air.  But  she  was  not -common  or  rough,  there  was  even  a  cer- 
tain refinement  in  her  face ;  she  looked  like  a  gentlewoman  out  of 
practice.  Her  black  eyes  were  fine  still,  but  they  were  sad.  Iler 
face,  her  manner,  her  carriage,  her  voice  —  all  together  spok«  of 
shadow,  sadness,  and  privation. 

Margaret  took  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl  —  was  she  no*,  a 
cousm  ?  "You  sliall  have  some  tea,''  she  said,  "  before  you  say 
another  word."  She  went  d<>wn-stairs  and  brought  up  the  ten, 
with  her  own  hands. 


166  liKVONl)    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"  Now,"  she  went  on,  "  if  you  arc  recovered,  \vc  will  talk  again. 
You  shall  look  round  the  room  presently.  First,  think  that  part 
of  your  mother's  girlhood  must  have  been  spent  in  this  room. 
Some  of  the  things  arc  new  ,  the  rest  were  here  in  her  time.  1 
know  all  the  family  history,  and  I  can  tell  you  about  all  the 
l)ortraits.  That  over  the  mantel-shelf  is  the  original  Burlcy, 
the  founder  of  the  family.  Your  mother  was  born  about  the 
year  1802.     When  did  she  die?" 

"  She  died  ten  years  ago.  The  parisli  gave  her  out-door  relief. 
She  was  bedridden  for  three  years." 

"  The  parish  !  the  parish  !  Good  heavens  !  And  her  brother  ten 
times  a  millionaire  !  What  a  man  !  Had  your  father  no  friends 
to  feel  any  sense  of  shame?" 

"I  think  he  had  cousins.  But  they  wouldn't  help,  and 
niother  wouldn't  ask  them  any  more.  Mother  was  too  proud. 
She  would  rather  work  her  fingers  to  the  bone  than  go  begging. 
She  said  she  was  a  Burlcy."  The  old  woman  looked  np  to  the 
lion-hearted  founder  of  the  family  for  approval. 

"  She  was  proud  of  being  a  Burlcy,"  Margaret  repeated,  not 
scornfully,  but  with  a  kind  of  wonder. 

"  When  father  died  she  wrote  to  her  brother,  and  he  wouldn't 
help  her.     But  she  kept  his  letter." 

She  produced  again  the  parcel,  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief, 
and  extracted  a  paper,  which  Margaret  took.  It  was  as  fol- 
lows '. 

"Sister, — I  am  in  receipt  of  your  communication.  I  will 
not  sec  you  if  you  call.  I  will  give  you  nothing.  You  have 
made  your  bed,  and  you  may  lie  upon  it.  You  deserted  your 
own  family  and  disgraced  yourself  when  you  ran  away  with 
your  lover.  ["  But  I've  got  lier  marriage  lines,"  interrupted 
the  daughter.]  Yon  had  better  apply  to  your  brotliers  whc 
also  ran  away.  Your  father  is  dead,  and  lias  left  mc  his  prop- 
erty— such  as  it  is.  ["  Such  as  it  is  !"  Margaret  repeated. 
"\S'li;it  a  man  I"  |     (io  your  own  way  and  let  me  go  mine. 

"  Your  brother,  John." 

"A  cruel  letter!  A  hard  and  cruel  letter!"  Margaret  gave 
it  l>ack.  "The  letter  of  a  hard  and  erne]  man.  But  his  pro- 
fession was  Destruction  and  Kuin." 


^>i»%. 


.ja«*4; 


"'you  all  havk  the  samk  kack'" 


LUCINDA    AVERV  167 

"  Mother  tried  to  see  him,  but  he  wouldn't  let  her  come  in. 
Mother  kept  the  letter.  She  said  that  she  looked  to  see  him 
cut  off  suddenly  for  his  hardness.     But  he  wasn't." 

"  No,"  said  Margaret ;  "  a  worse  thing  happened  to  him. 
To  be  cut  off  suddenly  would  have  meant  reward,  not  punish- 
ment. He  lived.  He  grew  harder  every  day,  till  he  did  not 
know  what  mercy  meant.  A  worse  thing  than  death  is  to  grow 
harder  and  more  merciless  and  more  insensible  every  da}' — and 
to  live  for  ninety  years.     Go  on,  you  poor  thing." 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  old  woman  went  on  quite 
in  the  connected  form  which  follows.  She  was  weak  in  the 
construction  of  sentences.  AVhat  she  said  was  extracted  by 
questions  and  suggestions;  if  we  were  to  put  them  all  in,  the 
length  of  this  chapter  would  extend  to  a  volume.  She  answered 
timidly,  and  only  warmed,  so  to  speak,  when  she  began  to  speak 
of  the  house  and  what  she  knew  about  it, 

"  So  mother  took  in  needle-work."  The  whole  tragedy  of  a 
iifetime  in  those  words — she  took  in  necdic-work. 

"  When  I  was  old  enough  I  began  to  help  her.  We  sat  and 
sewed  all  day  long." 

"Where  were  her  brothers?"  Margaret  knew  very  well,  but 
she  put  the  question. 

"One  of  them  did  something  and  was  transported  for  life. 
But  he  came  back,  secret,  and  saw  n)othcr.  Then  he  went  out 
to  New  Zealand." 

"  Oh  !    And  the  others  ?" 

"  One  went  to  America,  and  one  was  an  actor.  Mother  was 
so  poor  when  she  found  out  the  actor  brother  that  she  was 
ashamed  to  go  and  see  him.  Mother  was  proud  of  her  family, 
but  there  were  dreadful  misfortunes  in  it.  Even  when  we  were 
at  our  worst  mother  used  to  say  she  was  glad  she  ran  away 
from  the  misfortunes." 

"  Tlicre  were  misfortunes  enough  for  her,  I  think,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "  Jiiit  it  is  sti'angc,  however.  Always  the  same  feeling — 
tiis  same  dread  of  misfortune." 

"Yes,  she  was  proud  to  be  a  Burley  ;  but  they  were  all  um- 
fortunate," 

"And  you,  did  you  ever  marry?" 

"  Marry  ?"    The  old  woman  laughed    a  poor   little  shadow  of 


1G8  DEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

a  laugli.  "  Marry  ?  Do  men  look  for  wives  in  a  two-pair  back? 
Young  men  don't  keep  company  with  a  girl  too  poor  to  buy  a 
brnsli  for  her  liair  or  a  skirt  to  hide  her  rags.  Ah  !  no,  lady  ; 
I  had  no  time  to  tliink  about  keeping  company  and  marriage. 
"What  I  had  to  think  about  all  my  life  long  was  bow  to  get  rid 
of  the  hunger.  Always  that — and  nothing  more — unless  it  was 
to  keep  a  bit  of  fire  in  the  grate." 

"  Poor  creatures !" 

"  It's  over  now,  and  thank  God  for  it !"  The  poor  old  woman 
put  on  a  little  show  of  dignity  and  self-respect  as  if  already  in 
the  presence  of  her  best  friend — Death.  "  I'm  in  the  House 
for  the  rest  of  my  time — till  the  Lord  calls  mc.  Yes,  yes,  it's 
been  a  long  time  coming,  but  the  end  has  come.  Sometimes 
I  wake  at  night  and  fancy  the  hunger  is  on  me  again,  and  me 
so  tired  and  my  arm  so  heavy  and  the  stuff  so  thick.  It's  a 
blessed  thing  when  we  do  get  old  and  past  our  work." 

"  A  blessed  thing,  truly — I  never  thought  of  it  before.  And 
you  were  once  a  pretty  girl." 

"  Pretty  ?"  The  old  woman  really  blushed — a  pale  and  piidc 
suffusion  it  was.  "  No  one  ever  called  me  pretty  that  I  re- 
member ;  we  had  no  time  for  such  talk.  Why,"  she  said,  "  we 
old  women  talk — we  must  talk,  yon  know,  now  we've  got  no 
work  to  do.  The  others  talk  about  the  old  days  when  men 
came  courting,  and  they  went  out  together  in  the  evenings  and 
were  married.  It's  all  strange  to  mc.  I  had  nothing  but  work 
—all  the  time." 

"Yes."  Margaret  was  looking  at  her  thoughtfully.  Had 
one  ever  before  heard  of  a  woman  who  never  had  any  pleas- 
ure at  all  for  the  whole  of  a  long  life?  "And  so  at  last  you 
gave  up  work  and  went  into  the  House  ?" 

"Yes.  Some  of  them  grumble  all  the  time — I  don't.  It 
was  the  l)appiest  day  of  my  life  when  my  forefinger  got 
cramped  and  bent  —  look  at  it  —  and  I  found  that  I  couldn't 
sew  any  longer.  Then  they  took  mc  in,  and  I've  had  a  good 
dinner  and  a  good  tea  every  day  since  I  went  in." 

"  You  didn't  work  on  Sundays  ;  what  did  you  do  tlien  ?" 

"On  Sunday  morning  wc  went  to  churcli.  Mother  never 
would  give  up  going  to  church.  She  said  she  always  liad  gone 
and  always  would  go.     After  church  we  lay  down  and  went  to 


LUCINDA    AVERY  169 

sleep.  In  the  evenings  we  sat  in  the  dark,  and  mother  talked 
about  her  family  and  this  house.  Oh !  I  know  all  the  rooms 
in  it."  She  looked  round  the  room.  "  This  is  the  drawing- 
room.  Down-stairs  there's  the  front  parlor  and  the  back  parlor. 
They  used  to  live  in  the  back  parlor.  There  is  a  garden  at  the 
back,  with  a  grape-vine  and  a  mulberry-tree.  Up-stairs,  over 
this  room,  was  mother's  bedroom.  At  the  top  of  the  house  Avas 
the  nursery,  where  the  children  used  to  play.  And  there  was 
another  room  which  was  kept  locked,  and  the  children  believed 
there  was  a  ghost  in  it,  and  if  the  door  was  opened  the  ghost 
would  come  out  and  walk  about  the  house." 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  clear  that  you  know  the  house.  Now  get 
up  and  look  at  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  find  your  mother's 
portrait  if  you  can." 

It  was  not  difficult.  "  Here's  mother."  The  old  woman 
stood  before  the  portrait  of  a  girl  in  her  early  bloom,  beautiful 
— dressed  in  silk — dark,  black-eyed,  proud,  who  looked  down 
upon  her  pauper  daughter  with  a  kind  of  condescension.  There 
was  more  pride  in  the  old  portrait  than  in  the  miniature. 

"  It's  my  mother — young — oh  !  how  lovely  !  Oh  !  I  never 
saw  her  like  this.  Oh !  with  a  gold  chain  and  a  silk  dress — v 
and  she  gave  it  all  up  to  run  away  to  marry,  and  work  on  starva- 
tion wages  for  the  rest  of  her  life — oh,  my  poor  mother  ! — and 
said  she  was  happier  so." 

She  burst  into  tears.  The  old  weep  so  seldom  that  it  touches 
one  to  see  them.  Age  dries  up  the  fountain  or  sacred  source 
of  tears.  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  the  old  have  known  so  many 
sorrows  and  survived  them  all  that  they  think  little  of  another 
and  a  new  sorrow.  As  the  negro  said  of  his  iniprisonments, 
they  did  not  count  in  the  record  of  his  life.  The  old  know 
that  there  are  not  really  many  things  to  weep  about;  they  have 
learned  one  of  life's  many  lessons — that  things  do  not  matter 
much  if  one  has  patience.  Death?  It  will  happen  to  them- 
selves very  soon.  It  is  the  cessation  of  pain.  One  would  wel- 
come death  if  we  were  only  certain  that  the  rest  and  the  ces- 
sation of  pain  would  be  consciously  enjoyed.  Bereavement? 
Soon  or  late,  we  arc  bereaved  of  all  we  love  unless  they  are  first 
bereaved  of  ns.  Poverty  ?  It  is  the  average  lot.  Injustice  ? 
^Vrong?     It  is  the  universal  lot  of  mankind  to  suffer  injustice 


170  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

or  \vron<,'.  The  world  is  full  uf  wrong.  Dependence?  Most  of 
us  are  slaves,  and  must  jump  when  the  man  with  the  bag  cracks 
his  whip.  But  this  old  woman  wept  as  if  she  were  young  again. 
She  wept,  you  sec,  for  lier  mother's  sake. 

"  Oh  !"  she  cried.  "  And  I  never  knew  what  she  meant  when 
she  told  mc  about  the  old  house,  and  her  mother,  and  her  broth- 
ers, and  all.  She  was  thin  and  starved  all  the  time  I  knew  her 
and  worked  beside  lier.  I  didn't  understand.  And  now  I  know. 
She  was  once  like  this.  She  lived  here,  in  this  beautiful  house  ; 
she  was  dressed  Uke  tliat.  Oh !  the  dreadful  life  to  her— the 
dreadful  place  to  live  in — I  never  knew  it  till  now  !" 

"  Poor  creature  !"  said  Margaret,  her  own  eyes  charged  with 
tears. 

"  She  used  to  lament  of  a  Sunday  night  that  she  could  do 
nothing  for  me.  We  had  no  books  to  read.  You  see,  she  used 
to  teach  me  a  little — oh !  nothing  to  speak  of.  All  I  craved  for, 
ever  in  my  life,  was  new  boots  and  a  new  frock,  and  something 
more  to  eat.  I  never  saw  anything  like  this  before.  Mother 
lived  here — mother  was  like  this  1"  she  kept  on  repeating. 

"A  sad  story  —  a  miserable  story,"  said  Margaret.  "We 
must  see  now  what  can  be  done.  You  ought  not  to  remain 
where  you  are.  Uave  you  heard  anything  about  the — the 
estate  ?" 

"  There's  an  old  gentleman  in  the  House  who  was  a  lawyer 
once — I  believe  he  got  into  trouble.  lie  says  there's  a  lot 
of  money  waiting  for  somebody.  lie  says  I  ought  to  send  in 
my  claim,     liut  I  don't  know." 

"Shall  I  advise  you?" 

"The  man  told  me  not  to  show  the  papers  to  anybody.  He 
Kaid  tliat  if  anybody  saw  them  he  would  go  and  pretend  to  be 
me — 1  don't  know  what  he  said." 

"Hardly  that.  Well,  I  will  tell  you  how  the  case  stands. 
Try  to  follow  and  to  understand."  She  explained  the  situation. 
The  old  woman  listened,  hut  with  little  understanding.  Then 
Margaret  explained  it  again.  It  was  no  use  speaking  to  the  old 
woman  of  millions,  or  of  Imndreds ;  she  thought  of  money  as 
shilling's;  she  could  no  more  realize  a  liundred  pounds  than 
she  could  realize  the  distance  of  the  earth  from  the  nearest 
fixed  star.    "  Well,  there  is  this  money,"  she  concluded,  "  which 


LUCINUA    AVERY  171 

will  be  given  to  the  proper  persons  when  they  appear.  If  the 
dead  man's  grandson  does  not  appear,  it  will  be  given  to  the 
nearest  in  succession,  and  you  are  -certainly  one  of  them." 

"  When  will  it  be  given  ?" 

'*  I  cannot  tell  you.  The  people  who  order  such  things  may 
think  it  necessary  to  wait  for  a  certain  number  of  years.  If 
you  send  in  your  claim,  you  must  find  a  lawyer  to  draw  it  up 
for  you  and  to  take  the  business  in  hand.  That  will  cost  you  a 
great  deal  of  money." 

"  I  have  got  no  money." 

"  No  ?  Some  one  must  do  it  for  you.  Perhaps  my  husband 
would  help  you.  And  then  you  must  sit  down  and  wait — for 
ten  years,  perhajis." 

"  I  am  over  sixty-five  now.  I  don't  think  it  will  be  any  good 
to  wait." 

"  Not  much,  I  am  sure.  Still,  who  knows  what  may  liappen  ? 
You  may  be  the  nearest  to  the  succession — after  that  grandson. 
At  any  rate,  you  may  make  your  existence  known.  You  are  a 
cousin  when  the  other  cousins  turn  up.  And  perhaps  your 
cousins  will  take  off  this  dress  of  yours  and  give  you  one  of  a — 
another  color.  It  is  not  seemly,  you  know,  to  have  cousins 
in  the  workhouse." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I  will  stay  where  I  am.  I  have 
never  been  so  comfortable  before.  I  don't  want  the  money.  I 
am  contented  and  thankful.  I  don't  mind  being  a  pauper.  Why 
should  I  ?  I  live  better  than  ever  I  did  in  my  life  before ;  I  am 
warmer,  and  I  sleep  softer.  And  there's  no  more  needle-work 
to  do.  It  isn't  a  shame  to  me  ;  and  if  it  is  a  shame  to  my 
cousins,  I  can't  help  it." 

"  It  is  certainly  no  shame  to  you." 

"  You  see,  lady,"  said  this  model  of  a  contented  (>ld  pauper — 
poor  and  not  ashamed — "  if  T  were  to  ask  for  the  money,  they 
might  turn  me  out  of  the  House  !"  She  shuddered.  "  Tlicy 
might  say  that  if  I  am  going  to  get  money  of  my  own,  I  had 
better  go  away  and  make  room  for  those  that  liad  none."  She 
pursed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head.  "That  would  be  the  worst 
misfortune  of  all.  Besides,  if  I  got  the  money  I  might  spend 
it  like  father  spent  his,  in  riotous  living  and  bad  companions." 


172  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Margaret  smiled.  "  And  then  I  should  get  into  prison  for  debt 
like  they  sent  him.  I'd  rather  be  a  pauper  than  a  prisoner. 
And  now,  lady,  thanking  you  for  being  so  kind — ' 

She  took  up  her  shawl.  But  Margaret  laid  it  over  her  shoul- 
ders with  her  own  hands.  And  then,  before  she  tied  on  the 
bonnet — poor  old  Luciuda  had  never  experienced  such  attentions 
before — this  astonishing  young  lady  actually  kissed  lier  on  the 
forehead ;  kissed  a  pauper !  kissed  a  broken-down  old  needle- 
woman !  Such  a  thing  was  unknown  to  her  experience.  In  the 
House,  to  be  sure,  the  chaplain  always  shakes  hands  with  the 
old  ladies,  but  he  does  not  kiss  them  ;  the  matron  wouldn't  allow 
it;  the  guardians  would  not  approve  of  it.  Therefore  the  old 
lady  gasped  again  and  fell  into  a  shake,  which  brought  on  a 
cough,  and  made  her  sit  down  to  recover.  She  had  not  been 
kissed  for  more  years  than  she  could  remember.  And  no  one 
but  her  mother  had  ever  kissed  her  before.  Her  virginal  brow 
knew  nothing  but  the  kiss  maternal. 

"  We  are  cousins,"  whispered  Margaret,  with  the  kiss.  But 
Lucinda  did  not  understand.  The  chaplain  certainly  said  that 
the  inmates  of  the  House  were  his  sisters.  Cousins  or  sisters — 
it  meant,  probably,  the  same  thing. 

This  long  life  of  privation,  the  undeserved  misfortunes  of 
this  woman's  mother — were  they  because  her  name  was  Burley, 
and  because  her  ancestor  was  Calvert  Burley,  the  man  of  many 
sins?  Sorrow  and  disaster  fell  upon  every  generation.  Yet 
Lucian  would  have  it  that — 

"  Come  again,"  said  Margaret — "  come  and  talk  to  mc  again 
about  your  mother  and  yourself." 

Margaret  told  her  husband  of  this  unexpected  visitor. 

"Ought  we  to  let  her  stay  in  that  place,  Lucian?  Remember, 
she  is  our  cousin." 

"  And  the  money-lender  is  my  grandfatluT.  AYe  must  ac- 
knowledge all  or  none.  If  we  take  this  woman  out  of  the  work- 
liouse,  it  must  be  because  she  is  my  cousin." 

Margaret  made  no  reply.  His  words  and  his  looks  slmwod 
what  was  in  his  mind. 

"  All — all — pursued  liy  the  same  ill-fortune,"  slie  said,  pres- 
ently. 

"  Ill-fortune  caused  by  their  own  follies.    The  woman  married 


LUCINDA    AVERY  173 

a  spendthrift  and  fell  into  poverty.  What  had  Calvert  Barley 
to  do  with  that  ?  And  now,  Madge,  my  Marjorie  " — he  stooped 
and  kissed  her  forehead — "  remember,  if  I  cannot  take  this  in- 
heritance, nobody  else  shall.     That,  at  any  rate,  is  certain." 

"  I  care  nothing  who  has  it,  Lucian,  so  long  as  we  do  not 
have  it ;  so  long  as  I  am  never  asked  to  take  a  crust  of  l)read 
bought  with  the  vile  money  of  that — that — worm  " — she  could 
think  of  no  worse  name  at  the  moment,  though  she  felt  it  to  be 
inadequate — "  who  condemned  his  own  sister  to  a  life  of  starva- 
tion." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE     AUSTRALIANS 

"  Pater  !"  The  five  girls — they  were  gathered  together  about 
the  teacups,  their  heads  together,  their  tongues  talking  with  ani- 
mation extraordinary — all  jumped  up  and  clapped  their  hands, 
and  cried  out  simultaneously,  or  with  one  consent,  when  Sir  John 
opened  the  door  and  quietly  came  in  to  take  his  afternoon  tea. 
"  Pater !  Come  and  listen  !  We  have  had  an  adventure  !  We 
have  made  a  discovery !  We  have  found  the  long-lost  family ! 
We  are  heiresses  !  You  are  an  heir  !  Herbert  is  an  heir !  We 
are  going  to  get  the  most  enormous  inheritance  ever  known  ! 
We  arc  going  to  have  the  Burley  estates !" 

Sir  John  stopped  short  and  shivered  as  one  who  has  received 
a  sudden  and  unexpected  shock.  "  What  have  you  found  out? 
Don't  all  cry  out  at  once,"  he  said,  with  roughness  unknown  to 
this  flock  of  fair  daughters.  "  Well,  what  is  the  wonderful  thing 
you  have  found  out  ?     Let  one  speak  for  the  rest." 

"  You  speak,  Lucy."  They  chose  the  eldest.  "  Tell  him  ev- 
erything, just  as  it  happened." 

He  began  drumming  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  fingers. 
He  was  evidently  ill  at  ease.     He  looked  frightened. 

"  Don't  be  anxious,  dear  pater,"  said  this  eldest.  "  Nothing 
very  dreadful  has  happened.  What  could  happen  to  make  you 
look  like  that?  Only — but  you  shall  hear, and  then  wc  shall  see 
what  you  will  say."  • 

"Go  on."  His  face  was  averted  and  his  voice  was  husky. 
"  Tell  me  what  you  have  discovered,  and  where  and  how  you 
found  it." 

"  First,  then,  we  saw  in  the  paper  that  the  house  whore  this 
rich  man — this  Mr.  Burley — used  to  live  still  contained  some  of 
the  portraits  of  the  family." 


THE    AUSTRALIANS  175 

"  Well  ?  IIovv  did  that  concern  us  ?"  he  asked,  roughly.  What 
could  be  the  matter  with  the  pater? 

"  You  shall  hear.  If  we  knew  for  certain  that  our  grand- 
father came  from  some  other  family,  the  Biirley  portraits  would 
not  concern  us.     But  as  we  don't  know — do  we  ?" 

"  AVe  don't  know — we  certainly  do  not  know,  and  we  shall 
never  know,"  he  said,  dogmatically.  "  It  is  now  impossible  to 
find  out." 

"  You  shall  hear.  Meantime,  as  it  is  naturally  an  interesting 
question  with  us — " 

"The  name  is  spelled  quite  differently,"  Sir  John  objected,  m 
initio. 

"  But  pronounced  the  same.  And  the  Christian  name  is  your 
own,  pater  dear,  and  Herbert's  as  well,  which  certainly  means 
something.  As  for  the  spelling,  there  may  have  been  some  rear 
son  for  changing  it.  There  may,  perhaps,  have  been  a  return 
to  an  older  way — just  as  the  Seymours  became  again  St.  Maurs 
— and  our  Burleigh  is  certainly  a  prettier  name  than  his  I'lir- 

ley." 

"Go  on,  then.  Lot  us  hear  your  fine  discovery."  Sir  John 
stretched  out  his  feet  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  But  his  lips 
twitched ;  for  some  reason  or  other  he  was  ill  at  ease. 

"  Well,  we  thought  we  would  go  to  the  liouse  and  ask  permis- 
sion to  see  the  portraits.  We  thought  it  would  be  at  least  inter- 
esting, if  the  people  in  the  house  would  let  us  in.  We  could  but 
try.  They  could  but  say  no.  So  we  went — all  five  of  us — we 
went  together." 

"  Well — well.  You  went  together.  You  asked  permission  to 
see  the  portraits." 

"  First  we  had  to  find  out  the  house.  It  is  close  to  Westmin- 
ster Abbey.  To  think  that  while  we  were  visiting  the  Abbey  we 
were  close  to  grandfather's  old  house  !" 

"  Don't  jump  at  conclusions." 

"  Oh  !     There  can  be  no  doubt — not  the  least  doubt." 

"Not  the  least  doubt,"  echoed  all  the  girls  together,  in 
chorus. 

"Only  wait  a  little;  and  it  is  close  to  the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment. It  is  a  most  lovely  old  house  in  a  quiet  street.  Oh  !  so 
old — so  old — and  quiet  and  homelike,  one  would  like  to  live  in 


176  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

such  a  street  all  one's  life.  The  houses  are  only  on  one  side ; 
on  the  other  is  a  gray  stone  wall — the  garden  wall  of  the  Ab- 
bey ;  a  wall  as  old  as  the  Abbey  itself,  Edward  the  Confessor 
built  it,  I  expect.  The  front  of  the  house  is  covered  all  over 
with  a  magnificent  creeper,  the  leaves  crimson  and  purple  and 
golden — it  is  like  a  glorified  house.  There  is  a  red-tiled  roof, 
there  is  a  raised  door  and  steps  and  old-fashioned  iron  railings 
— that's  the  house  where  he  was  born — the  dear  old  granddad. 
But,  of  course,  you'll  go  to  look  at  it  yourself,  and  at  once  ?" 

"  We  shall  see." 

"  The  street  is  called  Great  College  Street.  There  is  a  brass 
plate  on  the  door,  with  the  name  of  the  doctor  who  lives  and 
practises  there." 

"  Shall  we  get  on  a  little  faster?"  Sir  John  asked,  impatiently. 
What  was  the  matter  with  him  ? 

"  Oh !  my  dear  pater,  it  is  all  so  interesting.  Have  patience 
for  a  few  moments." 

"  Such  a  beautiful  story  !"  cried  the  other  sisters,  in  chorus. 
"  Oh  !  do  have  patience.     Let  us  hear  the  story  told  properly." 

Sir  John  spread  his  hands.  It  is  a  gesture  which  means  any- 
thing.    Gestures  are  like  interjections. 

"  Well,"  the  eldest  daughter  continued,  "  I  must  tell  you  the 
whole  story — it's  a  most  wonderful  adventure.  AVc  rang  the 
bell — it  was  rather  formidable  calling  at  a  strange  house,  and  we 
were  a  large  party — but  in  such  a  cause  we  dared  greatly.  Five 
female  Japhets  in  search  of  a  grandfather.  We  mounted  the 
steps  and  we  rang  the  bell." 

"  You  rang  the  bell,"  Sir  John  repeated,  with  an  effort  at  pa- 
tience. 

"And  we  sent  in  mamma's  card  with  our  names — the  Misses 
Burleigh — in  the  corner." 

"  And  they  let  you  in  ?" 

"  Yes — we  were  received  in  the  dining-room  by  the  lady  of 
the  house.     Her  name  is  Calvert — " 

"Calvert?     Calvert?" 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  her  husband  is  connected  somehow  with  the 
people  who  used  to  live  here — our  people — but  she  did  not  say 
so.  The  name  on  the  brass  plate  is  Lucian  Calvert,  M.D.  One 
can  hardly  ask  a  strange  person  on  the  first  day  of  meeting 


THE    AUSTRALIANS  177 

about  her  husband's  family ;  but  I  suppose — oh  yes,  you  will  see 
— they  must  be  connected  in  some  way  with  the  Burleys." 

"  I  am  listening,  my  dear,"  said  her  father.  "We  shall  get  to 
the  point,  I  suppose,  presently," 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Calvert  received  us.  She  is  quite  young,  only 
a  girl  still — not  married  many  months,  I  should  say.  Such  a 
pretty  girl,  too — tall  and  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed.  But  her 
eyes  wandered  while  she  talked.  She  looks  melancholy.  Per- 
haps they  are  poor,  but  everything  in  the  house  was  very 
nice." 

"  Oh,  very  nice  !"  cried  the  chorus  of  damsels. 

"  I  was  speaker.  So  I  showed  her  the  extract  from  the  paper, 
and  said  that  we  ventured — and  so  forth.  And  she  smiled  grave- 
ly, and  was  gracious,  and  asked  me  if  we  were  claimants.  I  told 
her  that  we  were  New-Zealanders,  and  certainly  not  claimants  so 
far,  because  we  were  doubtful  whether  we  really  belonged  to  any 
branch  of  the  Burley  family,  which  must  have  changed  its  name 
in  the  hands  of  our  ancestors.  So  she  smiled  again,  and  said 
that  she  would  be  very  pleased  to  show  us  the  family  portraits. 
So  she  took  us  up-stairs.  Pater !  We  can't  make  such  a  house 
in  New  Zealand  if  we  tried  ever  so  much.  It's  all  wainscoted 
from  roof  to  cellar.  You  never  saw  such  a  lovely  house — the 
room  is  not  big,  you  know,  but  big  enough.  '  I  suppose,'  said 
Mrs.  Calvert,  when  she  saw  us  looking  about  curiously, '  that  peo- 
ple in  the  Colonies  may  easily  drop  out  of  recollection  of  their 
people  at  home.  I  will  treat  you  as  if  you  were  cousins  of  the 
late  Mr.  Burley,  and  you  shall  see  the  house  and  whatever  there 
is  of  interest  in  it.'  " 

"  That  was  pleasant.     And  you  saw  the  portraits  ?" 

"Yes,  we  saw  the  portraits.  And  here  comes  the  really  inter- 
esting part  of  the  story,  as  you  shall  learn.  She  took  us  up- 
stairs, I  said,  and  so  into  the  drawing-room  where  these  portraits 
are  hanging.  It  is  such  a  pretty  old  room,  newly  painted — low, 
with  three  windows,  and  the  liglit  falling  through  the  creeper- 
curtain  outside.  There  is  an  old-fashioned  fireplace — with  a  fen- 
der to  correspond." 

"  And  you  saw  the  portraits  ?"  asked  Sir  John,  a  second 
time. 

"  Dear  pater,  you  are  too  impatient.     Yes,  we  saw  the  por- 


178  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

traits.  There  arc  about  twenty  of  tlicm ;  tliey  begin  with  the 
full  wig  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  go  right  down  to  the  curled 
short  iocks  of — well — George's  IV.'s  time,  I  suppose ;  or  per- 
liaps —  Dot,  you're  the  youngest  —  you  are  the  latest  from 
school — who  reigned  about  the  year  1818?" 

'•  George  II.,"  said  Dot. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter ;  there  they  are,  and  the  women  in 
every  kind  of  head-dress  from  the  high  commodes  to  the  curls 
of — you  ignorant  Dot,  it  wasn't  George  II.  The  pictures  take 
us  back  nearly  two  hundred  years.  Many  a  noble  lord  cannot 
boast  of  respectability  for  two  hundred  years." 

"To  end  in  money-lending  and  dancing-cribs." 

"  There  are  the  sons  and  daughters  and  the  wives  of  the 
House.  Well,  all  the  men  are  dark,  though  some  of  the  moth- 
ers are  fair.     All  with  dark  hair  and  dark  eyes." 

"  And  the  eyes  follow  you  all  round  the  room,"  said  Polly,  or 
perhaps  Nelly. 

"  Yes ;  they  all  follow  you  wherever  you  go.     It's  ghostly." 

"  Go  on  with  the  facts,  Lucy,"  said  her  father.  "  We'll  deal 
with  the  ghosts  afterwards." 

"  On  every  frame  is  written  the  name  of  the  portrait,  with  the 
date  of  his  birth  and  death." 

"  What  did  the  names  tell  you  ?" 

"Pater  dear,  do  you  remember  grandfather  before  his  head 
became  white?  Would  you  recognize  him  if  you  saw  a  portrait 
of  him  at  the  age  of  sixteen  or  so,  a  lad  only  ?" 

"I  think  it  is  unlikely.  lie  was  born,  I  know,  in  1801  ;  I  was 
born  in  lS2l.  When  I  begin  to  remember  liim  well,  so  as  to 
recall  his  features,  lie  was  already  a  good  way  on  towards  fifty. 
Between  the  man  of  fifty  and  the  lad  of  sixteen  there  must  be  a 
great  difference.  I  remember  him  altogether  and  always  as  a 
gray-headed  man,  which  he  was,  I  believe,  for  more  than  thirty 
years." 

"  Well,  there  he  is  on  the  walls.  I  am  certain — we  are  all 
certain — that  he  is  there.  You  can  go  and  see  for  yourself. 
There  is  the  grandfather." 

"  We  are  all  certain,"  cried  the  chorus.  "  We  are  all  quite 
sure  ;  there  can't  be  a  doubt  about  it." 

"By  what  marks  do  you  recognize  your  grandfather?     Uow 


THE    AUSTRALIANS  179 

can  you  tell  that  the  portrait  of  a  boy  of  sixteen  is  tliat  of  your 
grandfather  ?" 

"  Because  Herbert  is  exactly  like  him.  That  was  what  called 
our  attention  first  to  the  picture." 

"  Exactly — exactly — exactly  like  him,"  echoed  the  chorus. 

"  Dot  first  saw  it.  She  jumped  up  and  clapped  her  hands  and 
cried  '  Herbert !'  And  we  all  ran  and  looked.  It  is  Herbert. 
When  you  come  to  look  into  the  face  you  see  there  are  differ- 
ences in  expression.  As  grandfather — I  must  call  him  grand- 
father— was  not  in  Holy  Orders,  there  is  wanting  the  spiritual 
look  in  Herbert's  face.  One  cannot  expect  that ;  but,  for  the 
rest,  the  same  forehead,  the  same  nose,  the  same  montli,  the 
same  shape  of  head — everything." 

"Everything  like  Herbert's,"  echoed  the  chorus. 

"  Let  us  examine  the  argument.  Here  is  the  portrait  of  a 
young  man  or  a  boy  who  closely  resembled  your  brother  Her- 
bert.    Therefore  he  is  your  grandfather." 

"Wait  a  minute;  we  haven't  half  done,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Not  half  done,  not  half  done,"  from  the  chorus. 

"  Courts  of  law,  or  heralds  and  genealogists,  want  stronger 
evidence  than  a  mere  resemblance,  my  dear  children.  But  I  own 
that  the  story  is  interesting.     Is  there  more?" 

"  A  great  deal  more.  On  the  frames  are  written  the  names, 
as  I  told  you.  The  name  on  this  frame  is — Charles — Calvert — 
Burley — spelt  their  way — born  in  the  year — 1801  !  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  Oh  !  You  found  that  name  on  the  wall !"  Sir  John  sat  up 
quickly,  and  he  became  like  unto  himself — a  Premier  in  the 
House,  meeting  new  facts  and  facing  unexpected  arguments. 
"  That  name,  too — and  that  date.  It  is  curious — very  curious. 
As  yet,  however,  we  have  not  got  beyond  the  region  of  coinci- 
dence. For,  my  children,  the  papers  have  been  publishing  an 
imperfect  genealogy  of  the  family,  and  I  find,  first,  that  they 
are  all  called  Calvert ;  and  secondly,  that  there  was  a  Charles  Cal- 
vert Burley,  whose  birth  was  of  the  same  date  as  my  f.ather's.  I 
would  not  show  yon  the  thing,  because  we  have  already  had 
our  thoughts  disturbed  enough.    And  the  name  proved  nothing." 

"  But  the  likeness — oh  !  pater,  you  must  go  yourself  and  see 
it.     The  likeness  is  most  wonderful  !" 


180  IIEYOND    THE    DREAMS     OF     AVARICE 

"  I  will  go,  certainly.     I  must  go,  after  all  you  have  told  me," 

"  Well,  and  there  is  another  portrait  also,  which  is  exactly 
like  Herbert,  though  in  a  dillurent  way.  It  is  of  a  man  who  was 
born  in  1745  " — she  was  speaking,  though  she  knew  not  the  his- 
tory, of  the  man  who  went  mad.  "  The  features  are  not  so 
strikingly  the  same  as  in  the  other  portrait,  but  there  is  Her- 
bert's look  —  his  straight,  upright  wrinkle  —  his  very  eyes^ 
bright  and  impatient,  with  that  queer  expression  which  he  has 
when  he  wants  to  be  a  martyr,  or  when  he  gets  excited  over 
somebody's  opinions.  My  dearest  pater,  you  will  never,  never, 
never  get  me  to  believe  that  these  resemblances  are  within 
what  you  call  the  region  of  coincidence." 

"  Never  !"  cried  the  chorus.     *'  Never — never — never  !" 

"  Do  you  want  more  likenesses  ?  Well,  then,"  Lucy  went  on, 
"I  told  you  of  one  of  the  ladies,  my  great-grandmothor,  I  be- 
lieve, which  they  say  is  like  me." 

"  Not  so  much  like  Lucy  as  that  other  portrait  is  like  Her- 
bert." 

"  And  if  you  want  still  more,  pater,  there  is  the  fact  that  your 
eyes  are  their  eyes — the  eyes  of  all  the  men — the  same  eyes. 
Look  in  the  glass."  He  got  up  and  obeyed.  "  The  same  eyes, 
as  you  will  see  when  you  go  and  look  at  them." 

Sir  John  sat  down,  with  a  sigh.     There  was  nothing  to  say. 

"  This  lady — this  Mrs.  Calvert — acknowledged  that  these  re- 
semblances—  what  you  call  coincidence  —  were  most  wonder- 
ful." 

"  I  suppose  she  knows  nothing  about — how  docs  she  come  to 
Lave  the  portraits  V 

"  They  bought  all  the  furniture  of  the  house  when  they  took 
it.  But  she  docs  know  about  the  family — she  seemed  to  know 
a  good  deal." 

"  What  did  she  tell  you  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

•'  Oh  !  That  this  one  was  the  man  who  had  just  died,  and 
that  this  other  was  his  father,  a  celebrated  miser — only  I  never 
heard  of  him — and  this  and  that.  I  asked  if  she  knew  why 
Charles  went  to  New  Zealand." 

"  Well  ?"  Sir  John  interrupted,  sharply. 

"  She  said, '  No  ;  he  went — '     And  then  she  stopped  short." 

Sir  John  groaned.     He  actually  groaned  as  one  in  deep  dis' 


THE    AUSTRALIANS  181 

tress.  "  Oh  !"  he  said.  "  She  knows — she  knows — she  knows 
the  family  history.  Did  she  —  did  slie— tell  you  anything 
else  ?" 

"  She  took  us  up-stairs  to  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house — in 
the  roof.  She  said,  '  You  are  all  girls,  and  so  I  will  show  you 
the  nursery  where  the  mothers  played  with  their  children  for 
generation  after  generation.'  There  it  was,  just  as  it  has  always 
been.  Mrs.  Calvert  will  not  have  anything  touched ;  the  old- 
fashioned  cradle  with  carved  sides  and  a  carved  wooden  head  to 
it;  the  babies'  things  in  the  drawers — the  things  worn  by  grand- 
father, I  dare  say,  and  the  dolls  and  toys  that  the  children  played 
with,  all  a  hundred  years  old.  Then,  while  we  looked  at  them 
and  wondered,  she  sat  on  the  bed  and  folded  her  hands,  and  she 
said,  talking  like  a  woman  in  a  dream :  '  In  this  room  I  always 
feel  the  presence  of  the  dead  wives  and  mothers.  They  seem  to 
be  telling  me  things.  You  belong  to  the  House,  somehow.  Of 
that  there  can  be  no  doubt  whatever.  I  could  wish  you  a  bet- 
ter fortune,  for  it  is  an  unhappy  House.  Disaster  follows  those 
who  belong  to  it.'  So  we  asked  her  what  kind  of  misfortunes. 
But  she  shook  her  head.  '  There  will  be  no  disaster  for  you,' 
she  said,  '  so  long  as  you  do  not  seek  to  inherit  the  fortune. 
Best  to  forget  it.  Be  content  with  knowing  that  you  are  Bur- 
leys — somehow.'  She  said  no  more,  and  we  came  down-stairs 
rather  saddened.  What  kind  of  misfortune  ?  None  ever  fell 
upon  grandfather ;  or  upon  you,  dear  pater." 

"  I  have  been  singularly  successful  so  far,"  Sir  John  replied. 
"  There  is  still  time,  however,  for  trouble." 

"  I  wonder  who  she  is,  and  how  she  knows  about  the  family. 
Some  kind  of  cousin,  I  suppose  ?" 

Sir  John  made  no  reply  for  a  while,  lie  sat  Avith  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  gazing  into  the  empty  fireplace.  "  Full  of  disas- 
ter— and  of — what  did  she  say? — of  crime?  Children,  do  we 
want  to  be  connected  with  a  family  whose  history  is  filled  with 
disaster  and  with  crime  ?" 

"  No  ;  certainly  not.  But  it  is  interesting  ;  and,  pater  dear, 
won't  you  take  steps  ?" 

"  What  steps  ?     What  to  do  ?" 

"  To  prove  that  we  belong  to  this  family — perhaps,  if  you  arc 
not  afraid  of  disaster,  to  take  this  estate." 


182  nEVOND    THE    DIIEAMS    OF    AVARICE 

Sir  John  rose  and  walked  about  the  room.  "  Steps  !"  he  re- 
peated. "  Steps  !  What  stops?  AVliat  for  ?  To  give  you  an 
inheritance  of  shame  ?  Crime  and  shame  go  together — go  to- 
gether— unless  crime  remains  undiscovered.  That  is  the  only 
chance  for  crime.  AVhat  steps  ?  We  might  easily,  perhaps, 
find  out  what  became  of  this  Charles.  Perhaps  he  went  abroad 
— went  to  America  or  somewhere.  That,  however,  is  not  the 
same  thing  as  to  find  out  about  our  Charles — your  grandfather. 
In  the  year  1842  he  sailed  for  New  Zealand  from  the  Port  of 
London.  There  our  line  begins.  Your  know  nothing  at  all 
before  that  date.  Connect  your  grandfather,  if  you  can,  with 
this  or  some  other  family  over  here.  Not  a  scrap  of  paper  re- 
mains;  not  a  shred  of  tradition  or  anything.  Coincidences, 
likenesses,  mean  nothing.  Suppose  you  find  all  about  this 
Charles,  say,  up  to  that  very  date — up  to  the  year  1842  ;  sup- 
pose the  history  of  him  stops  short  there  ;  suppose  that  the 
liistory  of  our  Charles  begins  at  the  point  where  the  other  his- 
tory ends  —  what  is  the  use  of  all  your  investigations  if  you 
cannot,  after  all,  connect  the  two  ?     Likenesses  won't  do." 

The  girls  were  silent.  "  Oh  !  but,"  said  the  youngest,  "  he  is 
exactly  like  Herbert,"  as  if  that  settled  the  matter. 

"And — we  are  sure  and  certain — sure  and  certain,"  cried  the 
chorus. 

"  Very  good,"  Sir  John  continued.  "  You  liave  also  to  ac- 
count for  the  fact  that  the  name  is  changed.  Why  should  our 
Charles  change  his  name  ?  Was  he  ashamed — out  in  New  Zea- 
land, where  there  were  as  yet  not  a  hundred  settlers,  and  no 
public  opinion  to  consider  at  all  about  such  things — of  his 
name  and  his  parentage  ?  Why,  his  father,  supposing  that 
he  belonged  —  of  which  we  have  no  proof — to  this  family, 
was  at  least  a  gentleman,  even  if  lie  was  a  miser.  Gentle- 
men don't  want  to  change  their  names.  They  are  proud  of 
them." 

"  Yes — but — all  the  same — there  is  the  likeness.  Go  and  see 
the  portraits,  pater  dear.  You  can't  get  over  the  likeness. 
Oh  !  it  is  too  striking — it  is  too  remarkable." 

"  Another  thing.  This  genealogy,  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
this  imperfect  genealogy,  gives  the  names  of  a  dozen  and  more 
younger  sons  of  whom  nothing  is  stated.     I  suppose  some  of 


THE    AUSTRALIANS  183 

them  married  and  had  children.  I  suppose  that  hereditary  re- 
semblance may  go  through  the  younger  sons  as  well  as  the 
elder.  It  is  not  the  exclusive  privilege  of  the  elder  son  to  be 
like  his  grandfather.  Considering  all  that  you  have  told  me — 
the  Christian  name — these  resemblances — I  am  strongly  of 
opinion  that  Ave  do  belong  to  this  family  ;  but,  considering 
other  reasons,  I  am  of  opinion  that  we  may  search — yes,  we 
had  better  search  among  some  of  the  earlier,  younger  sons.  If 
we  establish  such  a  connection,  you  will  have  what  you  have 
been  wanting  so  long,  an  English  family  without  too  close  a 
connection  with  the  money-lender  and  the  miser,  and  the  disas- 
ter and  the  crime." 

The  words,  as  we  read  tliem,  liave  a  show  of  authority.  The 
speaker,  who  was  a  tall  and,  as  we  have  said  before,  a  portly 
person,  stood  up  while  he  spoke,  which  should  have  lent  more 
authority  to  his  words.  But  there  was  something  lacking. 
AVIiat  was  it  ?  A  little  hesitation  ;  a  doubtful  ring,  as  if  he  were 
making  excuses.  When  he  had  finished,  he  turned  abruptly 
and  walked  out  of  the  room,  but  not  in  his  customary  manner. 
It  was  like  a  retreat. 

The  girls  looked  after  him  with  astonishment. 

"  What  ails  the  pater?"  asked  one. 

"  I  feel,"  said  another,  softly,  "  as  if  he  liad  been  boxing  my 
ears  —  all  our  ears  —  all  round.  Did  one  ever  sec  him  like 
that  before?" 

"It  seems,"  said  a  third,  "as  if  he  was  by  no  means  anx- 
ious to  establish  the  connection.  Well,  we  don't  actually  want 
money.  But  it  ^voiild  be  nice  to  have  millions,  wouldn't  it? 
And  I  don't  believe  the  world  would  much  care  how  they  were 
made,  after  all.     Money-lending — " 

"  And  gambling-places — " 

"  And  dancing-places.  ?]verything  disreputable  ;  though  wliy 
a  man  should  not  own  a  place  where  people  dance  I  do  not 
know.  It  is  not  wicked  to  dance,  I  believe.  If  it  is,  we  are  the 
chief  of  sinners." 

"  I  believe,"  said  the  eldest,  "  that  it  was  formerly  considered 
wicked  for  the  working  people  and  lower  orders  to  dance.  Well, 
you  see  the  pater  is  a  K.C.M.G.,  and  perhaps  lie  would  rather 
liavc  no  uncle  at  all  than  an  uncle  who  made  his  money  disrcp- 


184  hevond  the  dreams  of  avarice 

utably.  Perliaps  it  isn't  nice,  when  a  man  has  arrived  at  hon- 
ors like  these,  to  have  to  own  an  uncle  who  was — well — what 
they  say  this  man  was." 

*'  All  tlie  same,"  said  the  youngest,  "  the  two  men  in  the  two 
pictures  are  exactly  like  Herbert." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE     FIRST     PATIENT 

Sir  John  fled  from  the  house.  He  could  not  remain  in  it. 
He  fled  because  of  the  terror  and  the  shame  and  the  sickness 
that  filled  his  soul.  He  was  like  one  who  hears  from  a  phy- 
sician the  news  that  he  has  an  incurable  disease  which  will  fill 
his  future  with  a  perpetual  pain,  and  will  lay  upon  him  a  bur- 
den impossible  to  be  sliaken  off.  Such  a  one  must  needs  get 
up  and  walk  about ;  he  must  be  alone.  For  he  had  no  doubt — 
none  whatever — that  the  girls  had  really  discovered  their  English 
relations  ;  and  he  had  no  doubt — none  whatever — he  divined 
the  fact — he  felt  it — that  this  woman,  this  Mrs.  Calvert,  knew 
the  whole  of  the  family  history,  including  a  certain  lamentable 
and  terrible  episode  in  the  life  of  his  father,  Charles  Calvert 
Burley.  The  name,  the  date,  the  resemblance — all  these  things 
together  proved  too  strong  a  chain  of  evidence. 

As  for  himself,  he  knew  no  more  than  his  daughters  to  what 
family  his  father  belonged.  It  was  a  question  he  had  never  put. 
But  he  knew  certain  things,  and  he  remembered  certain  things ; 
and  he  had  learned  little  by  little  to  understand  that  concerning 
these  things  there  must  be  silence.  He  remembered,  for  in- 
stance, a  midnight  embarkation  in  some  far  country  ;  he  re- 
membered a  long  voyage  on  board  a  small  sailing-vessel,  in 
which  his  father,  mother,  and  himself  were  the  only  passengers  ; 
he  remembered  crowded  streets,  and  then  another  vessel,  and 
another  voyage.  And  he  knew — how  ?  He  could  not  answer 
that  question.  He  knew — he  had  gathered — there  had  been 
hints  from  his  mother  about  silence — that  the  place  of  the  mid- 
night embarkation  was  Sydney ;  that  his  father,  if  not  his 
mother  as  well — a  dreadful  possibility  which  he  never  dared  to 
put  into  words — was  a  convict  escaping  from   transportation ; 


Igg  BEVOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

that  tlicy  were  landed  in  London  ;  and  that  after  as  brief  a 
delay  as  possible  they  rc-cmbarkcd  for  New  Zealand,  a  colony 
then  so  thinly  populated  that  no  one  would  look  for  the 
escaped  convict,  even  if  any  search  at  all  was  made,  or  any 
notice  taken  of  his  escape,  in  a  place  so  far  from  British  law. 
He  knew  also  why  his  father  kept  on  the  fringe  or  edge  of  the 
English  settlement  and  avoided  the  haunts  of  men.  Even  after 
years  have  turned  the  black  hair  white,  one  may  be  recognized. 
But  no  one  ever  recognized  in  the  peaceful,  successful,  and  re- 
tiring settler,  Mr.  Burleigh,  the  ex-convict,  Charles  Burley,  trans- 
ported for  life,  in  commutation  of  the  capital  offence,  to  the 
penal  settlement  of  New  South  Wales. 

This  shameful  story,  then,  was  a  secret  known,  first,  to  his 
mother  and  to  himself ;  when  his  mother  died,  to  himself  alone. 
No  one  suspected  it.  The  old  man  died  in  silence,  believing 
that  his  son  knew  nothing,  and  the  son  had  this  secret  all  to 
himself. 

A  secret,  he  said  to  himself  whenever  he  thought  of  it — in 
these  later  days  seldom — which  would  never  be  discovered  ;  it 
could  not ;  there  was  not  a  possibility  of  discovery.  The  crew 
of  the  brig  which  brought  them  home  knew  nothing  ;  they  were 
all  long  since  dispersed  or  dead.  No  one  could  by  any  pos- 
sibility connect  the  prosperous  settler  with  the  forger.  The 
crime  itself  might  be  remembered.  You  may  read  it  in  the 
"Annual  Register"  for  1825;  but  the  criminal — he  disap- 
peared forever  when  he  went  on  board  that  brig.  The  settler's 
purpose,  in  which  he  succeeded,  was  to  escape,  to  begin  again, 
unsuspected,  and  without  the  stigma  of  his  crime.  He  had  one 
son  only  to  inherit  that  stigma,  and  he  succeeded  so  far  that 
no  one  except  that  son  knew  or  suspected  the  truth. 

As  for  the  boy,  the  possession  of  the  secret  made  him  re- 
served, like  his  father.  But  it  was  his  own  secret  to  himself. 
He  married  without  the  smallest  dread  of  discovery ;  as  his 
children  grew  up  around  him,  he  began  to  forget  his  secret; 
when  they  speculated  about  their  English  origin  he  listened 
and  laughed.  There  was  not  the  slightest  fear  of  discovery. 
It  was  impossible ;  and  now,  after  all  these  years,  the  thing  he 
had  quite  ceased  to  fear  was  upon  him.  In  his  own  heart, 
despite  his  words  of  doubt,  there  was  no  doubt.     The  girls  had 


THE    FIRST    PATIENT  187 

found  their  grandfather  ;  one  step  more  and  they  woukl  learn 
that  their  grandfather  was  a  forger  who  had  been  sentenced  to 
be  hanged,  and  a  convict  who  had  been  transported  for  life. 
What  had  the  woman  said — "  Disaster — misfortune — crime  ?" 
What  could  she  mean  but  the  crime  of  Charles  Calvert  Burley, 
born  in  the  year  1801,  whose  face  was  like  his  grandson's? 
And  he  had  brought  his  wife  and  daughters  all  the  way  to  Eng- 
land in  order  that  they  might  hear  this  shameful  story. 

There  was  no  man  in  the  whole  world  more  miserable  than 
Sir  John  Burleigh  when  he  fled  from  his  house,  and  walked 
quickly  away  with  hanging  head  and  rounded  shoulders.  Sir 
John  Burleigh,  K.C.M.G.,  who  usually  faced  the  world  with  a 
frank  smile  and  confident  carriage,  as  behooves  one  who  has 
done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  walked  along  with  the  outward 
signs  of  one  who  had  been  kicked  into   the  street. 

No  connection  could  be  proved ;  no — that  was  certain — no, 
but  the  suspicion  would  remain  ;  a  suspicion  amounting  to  a 
certainty. 

Of  course  his  footsteps  took  him  straight  to  Westminster  ; 
in  the  midst  of  these  very  painful  meditations  he  was  dragged 
by  the  silent  spirit  within  him,  which  makes  us  do  such  won- 
derful things,  to  Great  College  Street  itself.  He  was  startled 
out  of  his  terrors  by  finding  himself  actually  opposite  the  very 
door  of  the  house.  lie  knew  it  by  the  great  curtain  of  gor- 
geous leaves  and  the  name  on  the  brass  plate — "  Lucian  Calvert, 
M.D." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  he  mounted  the  steps  and 
rang  the  bell. 

He  asked  for  Dr.  Calvert.  He  was  shown  into  the  consult- 
ing-room. The  time  was  a  little  after  six,  when  the  September 
sun  is  close  upon  setting,  and  the  light  in  a  small  back  room, 
looking  south  through  a  frame  of  vine  leaves,  drops  into  twi- 
light, and  in  the  twilight  men  see  ghosts.  Therefore,  Sir  John 
reeled  and  gasped  and  became  faint,  and  would  have  fallen  but 
for  the  doctor,  who  caught  him.  "  Why,"  cried  Lucian,  gently, 
"  what  is  this  ?" 

The  ghost  that  Sir  John  had  seen  was  the  ghost  of  his  own 
father.  This  ghost  rose  from  his  chair  when  he  entered  the 
room,  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly.     All  the  men  of  the  Bur- 


188  DEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

ley  family  luad  this  strong  common  resemblance,  and  in  this 
young  man  the  common  resemblance  was  stronger  than  in  any 
other  son  of  the  House.  But  Sir  John  knew  not  that  Dr.  Cal- 
vert was  his  cousin. 

The  doctor  put  his  patient  in  an  arm-chair  and  stood  over 
liim.  Sir  John  began  to  recover,  llis  nerves  had  already  re- 
ceived a  great  shock  by  the  discovery  of  the  day,  and  the 
aspect  of  this  young  man  with  the  black  hair,  the  regular  feat- 
ures, the  square  chin,  the  black  eyes  deeply  set,  recalled  to  him 
in  this  unexpected  manner  his  own  father  in  the  very  house 
where  he  was  born.  Picture  to  yourself,  dear  reader,  a  visit 
from  your  own  father  as  he  was  at  five-and-twenty  !  Think 
how  it  might  be  to  meet  once  more  yourself  as  you  were  at  five- 
and-twenty  !  What  becomes  of  a  man's  old  self  ?  Last  year's 
leaves  are  dust  and  garden  mould,  but  wliere  is  last  year's 
man  ?  "What  liad  the  girls  told  him  ?  That  the  men  of  the 
family  Averc  all  alike  ;  and  licre  was  one,  presumably  some  kind 
of  cousin,  who  was  what  his  father  liad  been  before  his  hair 
turned  gray. 

"  Will  you  take  a  glass  of  water  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  "  or  a 
glass  of  wine  ?" 

"A  sudden  giddiness,"  Sir  John  replied;  "I  am  better  al- 
ready." 

"  Was  it  on  account  of  the  giddiness  that  you  called  ?"  lie 
looked  at  the  card.  "  You  are  Sir  John  Burleigh,  of  New 
Zealand  ?     We  have  lieard  of  you,  Sir  John," 

"  I  heard — somebody  told  mc — that  a  physician  was  living — 
in  this  house — and  I  thought — ^I  thought — I  would  call  and 
state  my  symptoms." 

Lucian  inclined  his  head  gravely.  What  was  the  matter 
with  tliis  gentleman  that  he  should  faint  on  entering  the  room, 
that  he  should  hesitate  in  his  talk,  and  look  so  anxious  and 
troubled  ? 

He  went  on  to  describe  his  symptoms.  There  are  a  great 
many  diseases  in  the  bag,  but  hitherto  this  fortunate  colonial 
had  enjoyed  none  of  them.  He  had  no  experiences,  therefore; 
and  as  he  was  a  very  poor  actor,  he  mixed  up  imaginary  symp- 
toms in  a  way  which  carried  no  conviction  at  all  with  them. 
It  is  rare,  indeed,  to  find  a  man  who  suffers  from  insomnia, 


THE    FIRST    PATIENT  189 

nervous  apprehensions,  neuralgia,  giddiness,  want  of  appetite, 
asthma,  indigestion,  headache,  heaviness  in  the  limbs,  and  other 
incidental  maladies  all  at  the  same  time.  Lucian  listened,  won- 
dering whether  the  man  was  deranged  for  the  moment. 

At  last  he  stopped.     "  I  think  I  have  told  you  all,  doctor." 

"  In  fact,"  said  the  physician,  "  you  have  fallen  into  a 
hypochondriac  condition.  You  hardly  look  it.  I  should  say 
that  your  normal  condition  was  one  of  great  mental  and  physi- 
cal strength.  You  look  as  if  you  were  suffering  under  some 
shock.  Your  parents,  now,  were  they  hypochondriac  ?  No  ? 
Well,  I  will  write  you  a  prescription,  and  you  will  call  again  in 
a  day  or  so." 

Sir  John  received  the  prescription  with  a  little  verbal  admo- 
nition, meekly.  He  also  deposited  two  guineas  with  the  meek- 
ness of  the  unaccustomed  patient. 

"  I  hear.  Dr.  Calvert,"  he  said,  timidly,  "  that  you  have  in 
this  house  certain  portraits  of  the  Burley  family,  the  people 
about  whom  there  is  now  so  much  fuss  and  talk.  I  believe 
that  I  belong  to — ahem ! — a  very  distant  branch  of  the  family. 
We  spell  our  name  differently.  Certainly  we  are  not  claimants ; 
my  daughters  have  already  been  privileged  to  see  them.  May 
1  venture  to  ask  your  permission — " 

Lucian  laughed.  He  understood  the  sham  symptoms ;  but 
why  did  the  man  faint?  And  why  was  he  so  nervous  and 
agitated  ? 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "  why  didn't  you  say  at  the  outset 
that  you  wanted  to  see  the  portraits  ?  I  will  show  them  to  you 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I  think,  however,  that  my  wife  is 
in  the  drawing-room.  You  will  iind  her  a  better  showman 
than  I—" 

In  fact,  it  irritated  him  to  talk  about  his  ancestors.  Mar- 
garet could  relate  their  histories  if  she  chose.  But  he  could 
not.     They  were  his  ancestors,  you  sec. 

There  was  just  enough  light  left  for  seeing  the  pictures.  The 
faces  showed  in  shadow,  which  suited  their  expression  better 
than  a  stronger  light. 

Sir  John  looked  round  him.  The  Barley  face  stared  at  him 
from  every  panel. 

A  young  lady  rose  and  greeted  him.     "Sir  John  Burleigh  T' 


190  BEYOND  THE  UKEAMS  OF  AVARICE 

she  said.  "I  am  not  surprised  to  see  you.  Your  dauglitors 
have  told  you,  probably,  tliat  they  called  here  this  morning.  I 
suppose  you  have  learned  that  they  discovered  a  very  striking 
resemblance  to  their  brother  and  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  told  me — they  told  me — "  he  began  to  look  about 
the  room  curiously.  "  Frankly,  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  my 
own  people — of  what  rank  or  station  they  were.  For  some 
reason  or  other  my  father  never  told  nic,  and  I  never  inquired. 
I  have  been  an  active  man,  building  up  my  own  fortune,  and 
endeavoring  the  best  for  my  country,  and  I  never  felt  any  cu- 
riosity on  the  subject.  One  need  not  be  ashamed,  Mrs.  Calvert, 
of  being  the  architect  of  one's  own  fortunes." 

"  Certainly  not." 

"With  my  children  it  is  different.  They  begin  with  the 
work  done  for  them.  Naturally  they  would  like,  if  they  could, 
to  be  coimected  with  some  good  English  stock." 

"  The  portrait,"  said  Margaret,  quietly,  "  which  most  attracted 
your  daughters  was  this — Charles  Calvert  Burley,  born  1801." 

"  Good  God  !     It  is  my  father  1" 

The  words  escaped  him.  He  gave  away  his  secret  at  once  in 
this  foolish  fashion,  and  then,  the  blackness  of  despair  falling 
upon  him,  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  gazed  helplessly  at  Margaret. 

"Is  it  your  father?  Did  you  not  know,  then,  that  you  be- 
longed to  this  family  ?" 

"  No.     I  did  not  know.     It  is  my  father's  portrait," 

"Sir  John,  do  you  know  the  history  of  your  father?"  Sir 
John  made  no  reply.  "  ^'our  daughters  do  not.  They  have 
no  suspicion.     But  you — do  you  know  the  story  ?" 

In  such  a  case  silence  is  confession.  Never  did  a  man  look 
more  guilty  than  this  man. 

"  You  do  know  it,  then,"  said  Margaret. 

He  groaned. 

"  In  that  case  I  need  not  recall  it." 

"There  is  no  other  person  in  the  world — not  my  wife,  not 
my  girls,  not  my  son — who  knows  or  suspects  tliis  thing,  ex- 
cept myself — and  you — and  anybody  else  whom  you  may  tell." 

"  I  tell  these  things  to  no  one.  Why  should  I  ?  My  hus- 
band, I  believe,  may  know.  That  is,  he  may  liave  heard  it; 
but  he  does  not  talk  about  the  misfortunes  of  this  familv." 


THE    FIRST    PATIEKT  191 

"  Your  husband,  he  is  one  of  them ;  he  is  exactly  like  myself 
as  I  was  thirty  years  ago.  He  is  exactly  like  my  father.  Who 
is  he  ?" 

Margaret  evaded  the  question. 

"The  men  arc  all  alike,  Sir  John.  Well,  I  shall  not  tell  your 
daughters,  nor  shall  I  tell  any  one.  My  knowledge  of  Charles 
Burley  does  not  extend  beyond  his — his — exile.  He  went  out 
to  Australia,  and  there  he  disappeared." 

"  It  is  everything  to  me  —  my  position  in  the  world  ;  my 
children's  pride  and  self-respect ;  my  wife's  faith  in  me — every- 
thing— everything." 

"  If  they  persist  in  hunting  up  the  past,"  Margaret  went  on, 
"they  may,  perhaps,  somehow  —  one  does  not  know  —  come 
across  this  story.  Because,  to  begin  with,  it  is  all  printed  in 
the  '  Annual  Register,'  where  I  read  it." 

"  They  are  so  certain  about  it ;  they  are  so  excited  about  it ; 
they  are  so  sure  to  come  again.  Promise  that — you  will  not  tell 
them — I  implore  you.  If  I  could  buy  your  silence — if  you  are 
poor — I  will  give  you  £10,000  on  the  day  when  I  put  my  girls 
on  board  again  in  happy  ignorance."  His  offer  of  a  bribe  did 
not  offend  Margaret,  because  his  terrible  distress  filled  her  with 
pity. 

"Indeed  you  must  not  buy  my  silence — I  give  it  to  you. 
Only  remember,  this  is  an  open  secret.  They  will  discover  it 
if  they  examine  or  cause  other  people  to  examine  the  case. 
After  all,  there  is  no  absolute  certainty  in  a  resemblance  or  a 
date.  I  suppose  that  without  your  help  they  could  not  con- 
nect your  father  with  this  portrait?" 

"  I  cannot  deny  the  family.  I  sup[)ose  that  we  are  IJurlcys — 
we  arc  exactly  like  those  people ;  I  do  not  think  I  could  possi- 
bly repudiate  the  family." 

"  Find  another  ancestor,  then." 

"  Eh  ?"     Sir  John  looked  up  quickly. 

"Find  another  ancestor.  Here  they  are — all  the  younger 
sons ;  a  family  likeness  may  descend  through  younger  as  well 
as  elder  sons.  If  I  were  you,  Sir  John,  T  would  choose  another 
ancestor  for  them  out  of  this  collection." 

A  counsel  of  deception — and  offered  to  the  man  of  the  great- 
est integrity  in   the  whole   of   New  Zealand  ;   the   man  whose 


192  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

whole  career  had  been  absoUitely  honest,  trutliful,  and  above- 
board,  and  he  adopted  it  instantly  and  without  hesitation. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  replied,  hastily.  "  It  is  the  only  thinp;  open 
to  mc.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Calvert.  "Will  you  kindly 
suggest — or  recommend  mc — some  one  ?" 

Margaret  smiled.  "  How  would  this  young  man  do?  He  is 
Joshua  Calvert  Burley,  born  in  1747.  His  father  was  hanged 
for  highway  robbery." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  they  find  out  that  or  not.  Hanging,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  doesn't  matter.  Besides,  one 
would  say  it  was  for  killing  a  nobleman  in  a  duel,  or  for  trai- 
torous correspondence  with  the  IVctender.  Joshua,  born  in 
1747.     What  did  he  do «" 

"  I  believe  he  died  quite  young,  in  childhood.  But  I  am  not 
certain,  and  no  one  will  ever  take  the  trouble  to  hunt  up  the 
matter." 

•'I  shall  remember.  Joshua  Calvert  Burley,  born  in  1747. 
He  changed  his  name  to  Burleigh,  I  suppose,  and  became " — 
Sir  John  looked  guiltily  cunning  —  "what  do  you  think,  now, 
that  he  would  become  V 

"An  eminent  —  sugar-baker?"  Margaret  suggested,  gravely. 
The  two  conspirators  were  too  serious  to  think  of  smiling  over 
their  deceptions. 

"Why  not?  Sugar-baker — made  his  fortune — baked  sugar 
at — Bristol,  perhaps.  My  father,  Charles,  was  born — a  younger 
son  —  in  1801;  lost  his  money  when  he  was  forty  years  of 
age,  and  went  out  to  New  Zealand.  How  shall  I  prove  all 
these  lies?" 

"  That,  Sir  John,  I  leave  to  your  advisers.  I  have  always  un- 
derstood that  genealogists  will  prove  anything." 

"  It  must  be  done  ;  there  is  no  other  way  out  of  it.  Heav- 
ens !  I  am  going  to  embark  on  a  whole  sea  of  falsehoods  ;  but 
all  I  ask  of  you  is  silence.  You  have  never  seen  me  before, 
but  your  husband  is  my  cousin — I  don't  know  how — and  you 
look  as  if  you  could  be  true  as  steel — true,  if  you  give  a  promise 
even  to  a  stranger — and  a  cousin  whom  you  have  never  seen 
l)efore." 

"  I  have  promised.      It  is  all  1  can  do." 

"  rromisc  again,"  he  repeated.      "  Promise  to  forget  what  I 


THE    FIRST    PATIENT  193 

said  at  first  sight  of  this  picture,  and  tell  no  one  the  story  of 
Charles  Burley's  crime." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,  even  now,  to  tell  them  ?  You  are 
not  to  blame.  And — and — I  had  forgotten  that — you  stand 
very  near  to  the  succession  —  there  is  this  enormous  fortune 
waiting.     If  you  send  in  your  claim — " 

"What!  Sir  John  Burleigh,  K.C.M.G.,  to  claim  a  fortune  by 
confessing  that  he  is  the  son  of  a  convicted  criminal,  and  that 
he  knew  it  all  his  life?  Not  all  the  wealth  of  all  the  Indies 
would  induce  me  to  send  in  that  claim  !" 

"But  your  children — they  will  force  your  hand." 

"  Not  if  I  give  them  another  grandfather.  My  dear  young 
lady,  hitherto,  believe  me,  I  have  been  an  honest  man.  At  the 
present  crisis  there  is  not  a  trick,  or  a  falsehood,  or  an  invention, 
which  I  would  not  practise  in  order  to  keep  my  girls  from  this 
discovery."  lie  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  brow. 

It  was  true.  Not  a  trick  or  a  falsehood  from  which  ho 
would  shrink  in  order  to  save  his  girls  from  this  shame. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Sir  John.  I  am  very  sorry  in- 
deed. I  will  keep  your  secret,  believe  me.  That  such  a  thing 
should  be  rediscovered  after  all  these  years  in  such  a  strange 
manner  is  most  wonderful.  But  if  the  knowledge  of  it  is  lim- 
ited by  you  and  me,  no  harm  can  be  done." 

He  groaned  again. 

"  I  think  that  the  plan  I  have  suggested  will  be  the  best.  Go 
to  some  genealogist  and  have  your  family  tree  made  out  with 
this  Joshua  Calvert  Burley." 

"  I  will— I  will." 

"Sir  John,  you  belong  to  a  very  unhappy  family.  Come 
here  again,  and  I  will  show  you  how  disaster  and  unhappiness 
have  pursued  them  from  father  to  son.  They  prosper  only 
when  they  separate  themselves  from  the  parent  stock.  You 
have  prospered — you  are  a  great  man — you  are  a  ricli  man,  I 
believe  ;  but  the  moment  you  return  to  your  own  people  you 
are  struck  with  misfortune,  in  the  shape  of  this  threatened  dis- 
covery. Good-night,  Sir  John.  Come  to  sec  me  when  you 
have  got  your  genealogy  complete  ;  and  don't  be  anxious  about 
things,  because,  you  see,  unless  you  own  this  Charles  for  your 
father,  no  one  can  possibly  charge  you  with  being  his  sou." 


194  BEYOND    TlIK    UKICAMS    OF    AVAUICB 

Sir  Joliu  went  home  a  little  lightened.  If  only  this  young 
lady  would  keep  her  promise  !  He  would  get  out  of  London  as 
soon  as  possible ;  he  would  take  his  girls  home  again  to  New 
Zealand  six  months  earlier  than  he  had  intended  ;  and  he  would 
nail  that  other  ancestor  to  his  pedigree. 

"  My  dears,"  he  said  at  dinner,  "  1  have  been  to  sec  those 
pictures." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  The  resemblance  is,  as  you  say,  very  striking.  But  T  ob- 
served that  the  resemblance  was  through  all  the  men's  faces, 
though  the  expression  varies.  For  instance,  there  is  an  earlier 
one  still  more  like  Herbert,  and  Mrs.  Calvert  declares  that  I  am 
myself  like  every  one  of  thcin.  Well,  as  you  say,  the  resem- 
blance is  too  strong  to  be  mere  coincidence." 

"  There!"    They  all  clapped  their  hands.    "  He  has  given  in." 

"  I  have  certainly  given  in.  We  belong,  I  am  convinced,  to 
that  family.  But  as  regards  that  portrait  of  Charles  Calvert 
Burley,  whose  name  is  the  same,  and  whose  age  would  now  bo 
the  same  as  my  father's  —  there  I  do  not  give  in,  although  the 
resemblance  of  Herbert  to  that  portrait  is  so  striking." 

"  Well,  but  who  else—" 

"That  we  shall  see.  Perhaps  I  have  a  clew — "  he  ended, 
mysteriously.  "  Perhaps  the  clew  may  be  followed  up.  Per- 
haps in  a  little  while  there  may  be  something  definite  discov- 
ered. Only,  my  dear  girls,  give  up  thinking  of  the  great  inher- 
itance. For  if  my  clew  proves  correct,  you  will  have  between 
yourselves  and  the  estate  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the 
miser  and  all  their  sons  and  daughters — and  you  will  inherit  no 
more  of  the  Burley  estates  than  the  Queen  herself!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
HERBERT    AND    THE    PORTRAITS 

The  girls  came  again — the  very  next  day — to  see  the  por- 
traits. This  time  they  brought  with  them  their  brother,  the 
Reverend  Herbert,  and  begged  permission  to  show  him — in  one 
of  the  old  pictures  hanging  on  the  wall — himself. 

"  I  knew  you  would  co:ne  again  soon,"  said  Margaret,  wel- 
coming them  with  her  sweet,  serious  smile. 

"  Oh  !  but  only  think !  If  you  had  been  brought  up  in 
ignorance  of  your  own  people  !  And  then  if  you  suddenly 
found  out  who  they  were,  you  would  naturally  feel  curious  and 
interested.  And  this  is  the  only  place  where  we  can  hear  any- 
thing about  them." 

"  I  shall  always  be  pleased  to  show  you  the  portraits." 

"Here,  Herbert" — they  led  him  to  the  portrait  of  Charles 
Burley,  born  1801 — "this  is  the  picture  we  pounced  upon  for 
grandfather's,  because  it  is  so  exactly  like  you.  Is  it  not,  Mrs. 
Calvert?  Look  at  him — Charles  Calvert — the  same  Christian 
name,  and  born  the  same  year.     It  must  be  he."^ 

"  It  is  like  him,  certainly,"  said  Margaret.  "  But  perhaps  this 
earlier  one  resembles  him  still  more." 

She  pointed  to  the  portrait  of  the  madman.  Herbert  re- 
sembled him  still  more  closely  than  the  other.  For  in  his  eyes 
this  morning  there  lay  a  strange  light  of  expectancy.  They 
looked  upwards,  as  if  waiting  for  a  fuller  faith.  It  is  the  light 
of  religious  exaltation  ;  only  one  who  can  believe  greatly  has 
such  eyes.  A  man  with  that  look  becomes  a  prophet,  the 
founder  of  a  new  creed,  a  maniac,  or  a  martyr.  A  monastery 
should  be  full  of  such  eyes ;  I  believe  it  is  not,  as  a  rule.  But 
I  am  told  there  are  nuns  in  plenty  who  have  these  eyes,  "i  ou 
may  also  find  them,  here  and  there,  in  the  Salvation  Army. 


196  BEYONU  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVAKICE 

Herbert  looked  at  both  pictures,  one  after  the  other,  *'  What 
was  this  man  ?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  later  portrait. 

"His  name  was  Charles  Calvcit  Barley" — Margaret  evaded' 
the  real  question. 

"  What  was  he  ?  and  what  became  of  the  man  ?"  Herbert  af- 
fected the  brusque  and  direct  manner  of  the  young  clerics  who 
go  so  far  in  self-mortification  as  to  pretend  not  to  like  the 
society  and  the  talk  of  young  ladies.  Perhaps  this  manner  is 
designed  to  show  that  maceration  still  continues;  perhaps  it  is 
a  measure  of  self-protection  ;  perhaps  it  is  designed  to  assert 
the  authority  of  the  director, 

Margaret  colored  and  looked  a  little  annoyed.  These  blue- 
eyed,  fair  girls,  who  seem  so  meek  to  outward  view,  can  show 
annoyance,  and  can  answer  back  at  times. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  shortly.  If  the  question  re- 
ferred to  the  completion  of  that  exile's  life,  she  did  not  know 
— she  could  only  guess.  If  it  referred  to  the  earlier  part  of 
his  life,  it  was —  Give  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Schoolmen 
would  allow  the  answer,  considering  the  question, 

"  We  seem  to  resemble  all  the  men's  faces,"  said  Herbert, 
looking  about  him, 

*' See,  Herbert;  there  is  the  pater,  too  —  and  there  —  and 
there — and  there — you  are  both  in  all  the  portraits." 

"It  is  impossible  not  to  be  convinced  that  this  must  be  our 
family,"  he  stated,  dogmatically. 

The  girls  clapped  their  hands.  "  He  gives  in,  too.  And 
the  pater  has  given  in.  We  are  sure  —  we  are  quite  sure.  It 
must — it  must — it  must  be  our  family." 

*'  Things  are  strangely  and  wonderfully  ordered,"  said  the 
clergyman.  "  We  come  to  England  on  a  visit — that  is,  you  do. 
We  have  no  clew  to  our  own  people.  We  arrive  just  at  the 
moment  when  publicity  throws  a  strong  and  sudden  light  upon 
an  obscure  family  ;  we  hear  of  these  portraits  ;  we  come  here 
to  see  them,  and  we  recover  our  ancestors.  Perhaps,  in  addi- 
tion, we  shall  step  into  a  colossal  fortune.  If  that  is  ordered,  as 
well  as  this  discovery  of  the  family,  it  will  be  a  great  thing;  a 
great  thing  to  pour  all  these  treasures — ill-gotten  as  they  were — 
into  the  lap  of  the  Church." 

"  You  forget,  Herbert,"  said  the  sisters,  "  that  they  will  be 


HERBERT    AND    THE    PORTRAITS  197 

poured  into  the  pater's  lap,  and  when  it  comes  to  pouring  out 
again,  the  colony  will  certainly  come  before  the  Church." 

"  And,"  said  Margaret,  "  allow  me  to  point  out  that  a  resem- 
blance does  not  constitute  proof.  You  would  have  to  establish 
your  connection  with  this  Charles,  and  it  may  prove  difficult." 

"  Since  I  cannot  give  the  estates  to  the  Church,"  said  Her- 
bert, coldly,  "  any  one  may  have  them  that  likes." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Burleigh,  are  you  satisfied  with  these  newly 
found  ancestors  ?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  with  candor,  "I  am  not.  I  should  have 
liked  either  the  higher  or  the  lower  class — even  the  lowest. 
These  people  are  of  the  middle  class — the  snug,  respectable, 
grovelling  middle  class  ;  incapable  of  aims  or  desires  save  to 
be  rich  and  comfortable  ;  incapable  of  sacrifice,  or  generosity, 
or  things  spiritual — the  outcome,  the  prop,  and  the  pride  of 
Protestantism.  Except  that  man  " — he  pointed  to  the  mad- 
man— "  they  all  grovel." 

"  My  dear  Herbert,"  cried  his  sisters,  "  what  do  you  know 
about  them?     All  this  from  a  portrait?" 

"  What  I  hoped  to  find,  if  not  a  noble  family,  was  one 
steeped  in  crime — black  with  crime  ;  my  grandfather  a  criminal 
— all  of  us  under  the  curse  of  the  forefathers — ourselves  await- 
ing the  doom,  yet  rising  spiritually  above  it,  making  our  very 
punishments  steps  unto  higher  things !"  His  voice  rose  shrill 
and  high  ;  his  eyes  flashed ;  it  was  a  curious  outburst  of  fanat- 
icism. 

"  Herbert !"  cried  the  girls  all  together. 

"So  that  I  could  go  about  among  our  poor  sinners,  who 
commit  a  new  sin  every  time  they  speak  or  act,  and  say  to 
them  :  '  Brothers,  I  am  one  with  yon.  We  have  the  same  fore- 
fathers—  criminals,  drunkards,  profligates.  We  are  all  alike, 
up  to  the  neck  in  sin  and  the  consequences  of  sin.'  " 

"How  would  that  knowledge  help  your  sinful  brothers?" 
asked  Margaret, 

"  It  would  make  them  feel  me  near  them — one  with  them. 
They  would  understand  me.  "With  sympathy  much  may  be 
done.     With  sympathy  and  confession,  all  may  be  done," 

"It  would  be  better  for  them,  I  should  tliink,  that  they 
should  feel  that  you  were  far  above  them." 


198  DEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

lie  sliook  his  hcatl.  "  The  Franciscans  were  the  most  suc- 
cessful of  any  preachers  or  teachers  among  the  people.  They 
lived  among  tlicm — on  their  fare — in  their  cottages." 

"  Did  they  desire  that  their  fathers  should  be  criminals  ?" 
asked  Margaret,  whom  the  manner  of  tliis  young  clergyman  of- 
fended. "  Had  they  no  respect,  pray,  for  the  Fifth  Command- 
ment?" 

The  Rev.  Herbert  turned  his  bright  eyes  upon  her,  but  an- 
swered not.  Young  as  he  was,  he  would  not  allow  a  woman  to 
enter  into  argument  with  him — a  deacon.  Then  he  waved  his 
hand  contemptuously  at  the  pictures.  "  Middle-class  respect- 
ability," he  replied  ;  "  I  would  rather  have  no  ancestors  at  all 
than  such  snng  middle-class  respectability." 

"  If  you  want  wickedness,"  said  Margaret,  "  perhaps  I  can  find 
you  enough  among  your  people  here — if  they  arc  your  people 
— to  satisfy  even  you.  There  is  this  man,  for  instance  " — she 
pointy  to  the  deceased  money-lender — "  to  be  sure,  he  is  not 
your  grandfather.  He  lived  for  ninety  and  odd  years.  He 
ruined  multitudes  by  his  gaming-tables.  He  ruined  other  mul- 
titudes by  keeping  houses  for  profligate  and  abandoned  per- 
sons. And  he  ruined  other  multitudes  again  by  usury  and  ex- 
orbitant interest.  He  is,  apparently,  a  cousin  of  yours.  What 
more  do  you  want?  Go  among  the  people  of  your  parish,  sir, 
and  tell  them  that  you  can  now  sit  down  with  them  proudly 
because  you  are  closely  related  to  a  man  whose  profession,  like 
their  own,  was  Destruction  and  Ruin." 

Margaret  had  never  before  spoken  with  such  plainness.  The 
young  man  winced — plain  speech  disconcerted  him.  But  he 
recovered. 

"  What  my  people  understand  is  not  the  unpunished  wicked- 
ness of  a  rich  man,  but  the  fall  and  the  conviction  and  the 
punishment  of  one  of  themselves.  Give  me  a  convict  for  my 
grandfather !" 

Margaret  turned  away.  Strange  !  What  maddened  the  fa- 
ther only  to  think  of,  the  son  ardently  desired. 

*•  I  don't  think  Herbert  quite  means  what  he  says,"  the 
eldest  sister  explained,  while  the  others  behind  her  mur- 
mured. 

'*  On  the  contrary,  I  mean  all  that  I  say.     I  should  like,  for 


HERBERT    AND    THE    PORTRAITS  199 

the  sake  of  the  Church,  to  be  sprung  from  the  meanest  and 
lowest  and  basest — " 

"  At  all  events,  Herbert,  you  would  not  like  your  sisters 
also  to  belong  to  the  meanest  and  the  lowest  and  the  basest  ? 
Oh  no,  you  cannot !" 

"You  cannot,  Herbert!"  murmured  the  chorus.  "Oh,  you 
cannot!" 

"  Perhaps,"  Margaret  added,  "  when  you  learn  more  of  the 
history  of  these  portraits,  you  may  be  satisfied." 

'*  You  know  their  history  ?" 

"I  know  some  of  it.  Since  it  is  not  likely  that  you  will  get 
exactly  what  you  want,  why  do  you  not  commit  a  crime  of  your 
own  and  go  to  prison  for  it?  Then  you  will  be  really  on  the 
same  level  as  those  poor  creatures,  and  you  will  spare  the  mem- 
ory of  your  ancestors,  and  inflict  on  your  sisters  only  the  shame 
of  their  brother." 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  said  Herbert,  coldly. 

"  Well,  Herbert,"  said  his  sister,  "  look  around  you  ;  choose 
your  ancestor  among  them  all." 

"  He  is  here."  The  young  clergyman  pointed  to  the  madman. 
"  This  is  the  ancestor  that  1  want.  His  eyes  have  a  look  of  ex- 
pectancy and  of  faith.  I  should  say  that  he  had  been  spiritual- 
ly blessed,  according  to  the  light  of  his  time — which  was  not 
our  time,  but  the  darkest  age  of  black  Protestantism.  I  have 
nothing  more  to  say.  Madam  " — he  bowed  with  more  polite- 
ness than  one  might  have  expected — "  I  thank  you  for  showing 
me  these  pictures,  which  I  verily  believe  are  those  of  our  people. 
As  for  what  you  said — you  do  not  understand  me  at  all.  For 
the  sake  of  the  Church  we  must  resign  all — even  the  honor  of  our 
name,  even  our  pride  in  being  the  children  of  good  men."  He 
went  away  without  taking  leave  of  his  sisters. 

"  He  is  not  often  like  that,"  said  Lucy.  "  But  sometimes  he 
is  in  the  skies  and  sometimes  in  the  depths.  He  has  got  a 
craze  that  he  ought  to  be  like  the  wretched  creatures  among 
whom  he  works — if  not  a  criminal  himself,  at  least  connected 
with  criminals.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  he  has  flamed  up  in 
this  way." 

Then  they  sat  and  talked  about  these  dead  and  gone  people 
whose  history  was  so  sad.     Margaret  told  them  something,  but 


200  DEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

not  all — the  things  that  saddened  hut  did  not  shame.  She  told 
about  the  miser,  and  how  his  children  ran  away  from  home  one 
after  the  other;  and  about  the  money-lender,  his  successor, who 
suffered  his  sister  to  live  in  the  most  abject  poverty.  She  hid 
from  them  the  story  of  the  forger  who  was  sent  to  Australia, 
and  that  of  the  man  who  went  mad  from  religious  terrors,  and 
that  of  the  man  who  was  hanged.  She  told  them  enough.  The 
possession  of  an  English  family,  they  discovered,  would  not  nec- 
essarily make  them  more  joyful. 

"  Yet  we  have  a  family  !''  cried  Lucy.  "  Even  to  have  a  fam- 
ily like  this,  laden  with  troubles,  is  surely  better  than  none." 

When  they  went  down-stairs  they  found,  standing  at  the  door 
just  opened  for  her,  a  tall,  thin  old  woman,  dressed  in  a  blue 
frock  and  a  check  shawl. 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  said  Margaret.  "  You  want  to  know  your 
own  people  ?  Let  me  introduce  you  to  your  cousin,  Lucinda 
Avery,  daughter  of  Lucinda  Burley,  who  was  the  sister  of  the 
rich  man  recently  deceased.  Lucinda  Avery  is  now  in  Maryle- 
bone  workhouse — a  pauper.  We  are  going  to  take  her  out  soon 
— in  a  few  days.  Meantime  she  is,  I  believe,  your  cousin.  My 
dear" — she  addressed  the  old  woman — "  these  young  ladies  are 
the  daughters  of  Sir  John  Burleigh,  from  New  Zealand,  and  they 
believe  themselves  to  be  the  granddaughters  of  one  Charles  Bur- 
ley-" 

"  Son  of  Charles  ?  He  was  my  mother's  brother — her  brotlier. 
Oh !  now  I  remember — "  But  she  hesitated,  looking  in  won- 
der at  these  girls  so  beautiful  and  so  richly  dressed. 

"  We  are  not  certain  that  he  was  our  grandfathei',"  said  one 
of  the  girls. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "  There  was  never  any  uther 
Charles  in  the  family,"  she  said.  "  Oh  !  I  know — I  know  my 
own.  Mother  told  me  all  she  could.  I  don't  forget — no — no  ; 
about  mother's  family  I  can  talk." 

Lucy  took  her  hand.  "  You  poor  thing !"  she  said.  "  Mv 
name  is  Lucinda,  too.  I  don't  think  a  cousin  of  ours  ought 
to  be  in  the  workhouse.  I  will  speak  to  my  father  about 
you." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  "Sir  John  !"  she 
repeated.     "  Sir  John  !     Oh  !     It's  wonderful." 


HERBERT    AND    THE    PORTRAITS  201 

"  Mrs.  Calvert  will  tell  ns  how  we  can  help  yon,"  Lucy  con- 
tinued.    "  You  will  let  us  help  you  ?" 

"  Sir  John  !  Sir  John  !"  the  old  woman  repeated,  staring. 

The  girls  nodded  and  ran  down  the  steps.  The  old  woman 
looked  after  them. 

"  And  their  grandfather — my  uncle — he  was  a  common  con- 
vict," she  murmured.  "  From  New  Zealand  !  And  their  father 
is  Sir  John — Sir  John.  Mother  said  she  couldn't  never  get  over 
the  disgrace  of  her  brother  being  a  common  convict.  And  look 
at  them  now  !     And  their  grandfather  was  a  common  convict !" 

She  pursed  her  thin  lips  and  shook  her  head,  and  went  in- 
doors to  talk  with  Margaret. 

9* 


CHAPTER   XXV 

WHO    AM    I? 

"Come,"  said  Margaret,  taking  the  old  woman's  liand.  "I 
think  my  husband  is  in  liis  study.  Let  mc  take  you  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  him." 

But  Lucinda  Avery  continued  gazing  after  the  girls  as  they 
walked  down  College  Street. 

"They're  the  daughters  of  Sir  John,"  she  repeated.  "Sir — 
John —  Oh  !  and  their  grandfather  was  Charles,  who  was  a  com- 
mon convict,  and  came  back  and  went  out  to  New  Zealand.  I 
saw  him  before  he  went." 

"  Hush !  Do  not  speak  of  that.  They  know  nothing  about 
it.     And  remember — those  who  know  most  speak  least,  Lucinda," 

"  Mother  told  me  all  about  it  long  afterwards.  Oh  !  and  I 
am  the  cousin  of  those  young  ladies — and  them  dressed  so  love- 
ly !  And  such  lovely  manners !  They  want  to  call  at  the  House 
to  see  me.  They'd  be  taken  to  the  matron.  Such  sweet  young 
ladies!  and  their  grandfather  was  a — " 

"  Lucinda,"  said  Margaret,  sharply,  "  keep  silence  about  what 
you  know.    It  is  quite  enough  to  think  that  you  and  I  know." 

The  possession  of  this  knowledge  made  the  old  lady  smile 
and  bend  her  head  sideways,  and  even  amble  a  littk; — but  one 
may  be  mistaken.  The  pride  of  sharing  such  a  possession  with 
the  "  lady  of  the  house  "  fell  upon  her  and  gave  her  great  com- 
fort. IIow  elevating  and  sustaining  a  thing  is  personal  pride — 
the  pride  of  some  personal  distinction,  if  it  is  only  a  glass  eye ! 
Never  before  had  this  old  woman  had  any  possession  of  her  own 
at  all,  except  the  sticks  and  duds  of  her  miserable  room. 

Margaret  looked  into  the  study.  "  If  we  do  not  disturb  you, 
Lucian,  here  is  our  cousin  Lucinda  Avery,  of  whom  I  spoke. 
Come,  Lucinda." 


WHO    AM    I?  203 

Lucian  rose  and  welcomed  the  pauper  cousin,  who  received 
his  liand  with  a  courtesy  humiliating-  for  a  cousin  to  witness. 

"  Our  cousin  remains  in  the  union,  dear,  only  until  I  have 
concluded  the  arrangements  for  getting  her  comfortably  cared 
for  outside.  You  are  not  going  back  to  your  old  quarters, 
Lucinda ;  you  shall  have  your  own  room,  and  pleasant  people 
to  cocker  you  up  and  keep  you  warm." 

The  prospect  did  not  seem  very  attractive  to  the  old  lady. 
She  pulled  her  shawl  more  tightly  round  her,  and  said,  with 
meaning,  that  the  union  was  kept  nice  and  warm,  and  she'd 
never  had  such  good  meals. 

"  But  not  so  warm  as  the  nest  we  shall  find  for  you.  Lucian, 
our  cousin  has  not  been  in  a  position  to  acquire  much  book- 
learning;  but  she  knows  the  whole  history  of  this  House,  down 
to  the  miser  and  his  five  children." 

"  Mother  told  me,"  she  repeated.  "  On  Sunday  nights  she 
used  to  talk  to  me  about  them,  sitting  by  the  light  of  the  street- 
lamp.  Other  nights  we  worked,  and  mother  talked  to  herself 
with  her  lips  all  the  time.  I  know  a  great  deal.  You  are  a 
Burley,  too,"  she  added,  staring  at  Lucian.  "  They  are  all  alike, 
the  Burleys.  A  reg'lar  Burley,  you  are,  just  exactly  like  the 
pictures  up-stairs." 

"Didn't  you  read  the  name  on  the  door-plate?"  asked  Marga- 
ret.    "  Lucian  Calvert." 

"  I  read  print — almost  any  kinds  of  print,"  Lucinda  replied. 
"  But  not  door-plates.  Lucian  Calvert  Burley,  then.  They  are 
all  Calvert  Burleys.     Every  one." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Lucian.     "  Then,  pray,  who  am  I  ?" 

She  turned  her  head  sideways.  Every  gesture  that  this  poor 
woman  used  seemed  not  to  fit  her;  tall,  thin,  dark,  with  strong- 
ly marked  and  clear-cut  features,  she  should  have  been  full  of 
dignity  and  authority — a  Queen  of  Tragedy.  Instead  of  which 
there  was  no  part  in  the  humblest  comedy  that  she  could  fill. 
She  was  timid  ;  she  had  never  before  met  such  people  as  these, 
who  neither  bullied  her  nor  wanted  to  sweat  her ;  but  she  had 
a  secret  shared  Avith  "  the  lady  of  the  house."  And  she  knew 
all  about  the  Burleys.  The  mixture  of  pride  and  timidity  pro- 
duced remarkable  phenomena  in  her  carriage.  She  turned  her 
head   on   one   side ;  she   smiled  ;  she   advanced   one   foot,  and 


204  DEYONl)    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

withdrew  it;  she  took  licr  liands  from  under  her  apron  and 
folded  them  openly  in  front,  which  meant  self-assertion. 

"  I've  seen  all  the  pictures  up-stairs,"  she  said — "every  one  of 
them.  And  my  mother's  among  them — with  a  gold  chain.  And 
the  men  are  all  alike.  That's  what  mother  used  to  say.  'See 
one,'  she  said,  'and  you've  seen  all.'" 

And  now  the  old  lady,  who  had  been  answering  in  monosyl- 
lables, began  to  be  as  garrulous  as  an  old  crow,  proud  to  show 
her  knowledge. 

"  Well  3" 

"  You  can't  be  the  grandson  of  Charles,  who  was —  I  humbly 
beg  pardon"  (to  Margaret) ;  "those  who  know  most  speak  least. 
He  went  abroad,  and  his  young  ladies  arc  at  home,  and  I've 
seen  them.  Nor  you  can't  be  the  grandson  of  James,  who  ran 
away  with  his  master's  wife  to  America  and  never  came  back 
again.  P'r'aps  you're  the  son  of  Henery  "  (she  said  "  Ilenery  "); 
"  he  was  an  actor,  and  so  was  his  son.  Once,  a  long  time  ago, 
mother  and  me  went  to  see  a  play  in  a  theatre  where  they  both 
acted.  We  sat  in  the  front  row  of  the  gallery,  and  saw  beauti- 
ful. Oh,  it  was  lovely  !  Mother's  own  brother  and  her  neph- 
ew acting — dressed  up  iine — on  the  stage.  It  was  grand  !  She 
inquired  about  thein  —  oli!  she  knew  about  all  her  relations. 
There  was  only  one  child,  and  he  was  a  boy  named  Clarence. 
Mother  liked  to  find  out  everything.  Then  there  was  Uncle 
John — him  that  died  the  other  day.  He  married,  and  he  had 
six  children.  Five  of  them  died  young.  Served  him  right,  said 
mother,  for  his  hard  heart.  Then  there  was  one  son  left.  When 
his  mother  died,  the  boy  ran  away.  Mother  found  out  so  much. 
Oh  !  she  used  to  come  round  here — it  wasn't  very  far — and  ask 
the  postman,  and  the  pot-boys,  and  the  bakers'  boys.  She  never 
wrote  to  her  brother  any  more,  nor  wanted  to  see  him,  but  she 
wanted  to  find  out  everything  that  happened  in  the  family." 

*'  And  what  became  of  that  son  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — mother  didn't  know.  But  as  for  you — why, 
you  are  his  son,  for  sure." 

"Oh!  you  think—" 

"  You  are  liis  son,  for  sure  and  certain.  You  are  a  Burley, 
and  you're  exactly  like  the  picture  of  Uncle  John,  up-stairs. 
Yes ;  you  are  his  son.     You  can't  be  anybody  else." 


WHO    AM    I?  205 

Marcraret  said  iiotliinsf.  Lncian  ijazed  at  the  old  woman  witli 
surprise. 

"  She  has  said  it,"  he  replied.  "  This  convinces  me,  if  I  want- 
ed any  convincing,  that  all  old  women,  and  especially  all  illit- 
erate old  women"  (he  murmured  these  words),  "are  witches. 
They  read  thoughts;  they  know  the  past;  they  forestall  the 
future.  Go,  witch !  My  wife  will  give  you  tea.  And  don't 
think  that  there  are  no  places  outside  the  union  where  you  can 
find  a  warm  corner." 

"You  are  his  grandson,"  she  repeated.  Then  she  produced 
from  under  her  shawl  a  long,  lean,  and  bony  forefinger,  attached 
to  her  poor  old  hand.  It  was  the  forefinger  which  had  been 
cramped  and  bent  from  overwork,  and  to  shake  it  in  its  cramped 
shape  in  a  man's  face  was  something  like  shaking  the  nightmare 
of  a  door-key.  But  she  did  shake  it,  and  she  became  on  the 
spot  a  witch,  a  sorceress,  and  a  prophetess.  "  Take  care,  you  ! 
Take  care !  From  father  to  son,  from  man  to  man — mother  al- 
ways said  so — nothing  but  sin  and  misery,  sin  and  misery — all 
the  men,  from  father  to  son.  Your  father  ran  away  from  it. 
Take  care,  you  !  Run  away  from  it !  Leave  this  Louse  !  Run 
away  !     Did  he  escape — your  father — did  he  escape?" 

"  Yes ;  as  you  say,  he  escaped,"  said  Lucian,  impatiently. 

"That  dear  old  thing,"  he  said,  later  in  the  evening,  "your 
interesting  pauper,  Margaret,  carries  on  the  family  superstition, 
I  observe.  Strange  that  my  father  himself —  Well,  never  mind. 
Here  is  a  letter  signed  Clarence  Burghley — B-u-r-g-h-1-e-y,  an- 
other variant  of  the  name.  Clarence  John  Calvert  Burghley 
says  that  he  is  a  grandson  of  the  second  son — the  one  who 
ran  away  and  went  on  the  stage.  1  dare  say ;  I  don't  mind  if 
he  is  twenty  grandsons — and  that  he  is  about  to  forward  to  the 
Treasury  papers,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  and  may  he  see  the  family  por- 
traits? Certairdy,  if  you  like  to  show  them.  Did  the  second 
son  murder  anybody,  or  forge  anything?  ilow  did  he  distin- 
guish liimsclf  ?" 

"  He  became,  as  the  pauper  cousin  has  just  told  us,  a  popular 
actor.     That  is  all  I  know  about  him." 

"Not  much  of  the  family  curse  upon  him,  anyhow.  I  don't 
think  that  was  fair  upon  the  others.  Well,  this  Johnnie  is 
going  to  be  a  claimant,  and  the  Australian,  1  suppose,  will  have 


206  HEVOND    TIIK    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

a  look  in,  and  the  little  American  wants  justice  done,  too.     Jus- 
tice shall  be  done." 

"You  like  the  little  American  girl,  Lucian?  Yes,  I  thought 
you  did.  She  is  proud  and  slie  is  poor  and  she  is  independent, 
and  if  we  don't  help  her  she  will  starve — she  and  her  tearful 
aunt." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  why  showldn't  she  starve  ?  That  is  the 
question." 

"  No,  she  must  not.     I  want  to  help  her,  Lucian." 
"  Get  her  to  go  back  to  her  own  people.     That  is  the  best 
way  to  help  her." 

"  Let  me  ask  them  to  stay  here  for  a  little.  It  won't  cost  us 
much,  Lucian — and  to  them  it  may  mean  everything — and  you 
like  her  talk." 

"  Have  your  own  way,  my  dear  ;  you  always  do.  Ask  all  the 
cousins — New-Zealanders  and  all." 

Then  Lucian  relapsed  into  his  usual  silent  broodino-. 
"It  is  too  ridiculous  !"  he  said  at  last.     "Here  am  I,  a  man 
of  science,  actually  debarred  from  taking  my  own  by  supersti- 
tious  folly   worthy  of  the   ignorant   old   pauper  who   believes 
in  it !" 

Margaret  looked  up,  reproachfully. 

"  My  father  wanted  me  to  make  a  promise.  You  wanted  me 
to  make  a  promise." 

"  You  did  make  a  promise,  Lucian.  Is  it  only  the  supersti- 
tion ?  Is  there  not  something  to  be  said  for  the  infamy  attach- 
ing to  the  money  ?" 

"  The  world  cares  very  little  how  tlic  money  has  been  made. 
The  world  would  not  ask,  my  dear.  There  would  be  no  infamy 
at  all.  Very  great  fortunes  cast  out  reproach ;  just  as  success- 
ful revolutions  are  no  longer  rebellions.  Everybody  would 
know  the  past — old  history !  old  history  ! — and  no  one  would 
care  twopence  about  it.  Put  the  infamy  theory  out  of  your 
mind." 

"I  cannot.  It  would  be  always  in  my  mind  but  for  the 
thought  that  we  have  separated  ourselves  from  them." 

"  Marjorie,  be  reasonable.  Now  listen,  without  thinking  of 
infamy  and  misfortune  and  family  curses.  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  am  thinking  of  this  estate  as  a  means  of  living  with  more 


WHO  AM  I?  207 

magnificence  ?  Do  I  want  to  eat  and  drink  more  ?  Do  I  want 
to  buy  you  diamonds  ?  You  know  that  I  cannot  desire  these 
things." 

"  No,  Lucian,  you  cannot." 

"  Sujipose  that  I  saw  a  way  to  advance  science — my  science — 
the  science  of  life — the  most  important  of  all  the  sciences,  by 
using  the  vast  funds  which  this  estate  would  give  me  ?  Sup- 
pose that  I  had  formulated  a  project — such  a  project  as  had 
never  before  been  possible  for  the  world — and  that  I  could  bring 
it  into  existence  if  I  had  this  great  fortune  ?" 

"Your  dream,  Lucian,  would  turn  to  Dead  Sea  fruit." 

*'  Again  this  bogie  !  Always  this  bogie !  My  dear,  I  am 
talking  of  things  scientific,  not  of  old  wives'  fables.  I  am 
dreaming  of  a  world-wide  service.  Madge — wife  !" — he  laid 
his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her  brow — "  release 
me  from  that  promise — set  me  free.  Let  me  give  this  great 
thing  to  humanity." 

"Release  you?"  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  roughly  pushed 
away  his  hands.  "  Release  you,  Lucian  ?  Yes,  if  you  first  re- 
lease me  from  my  marriage  vows;  if  you  will  promise  that  I 
shall  never,  never,  never  join  that  band  of  weeping  mothers  !  If 
you  will  send  me  away,  I  will  release  you ;  and  not  till  then  !" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
A    SHAKY     PARTNERSHIP 


The  partnership  began  its  autumn  term  badly.  So  badly  that 
failure,  bankruptcy,  separation,  looked  imminent.  The  relations 
between  poet  and  sinj^cr  were  more  than  strained ;  they  were  fast 
becoming  impossible ;  accusations  and  recriminations  were  of 
daily  occurrence.  No  more  easy  dropping  into  rhyme;  no  more 
brotherly  discussions  of  tags  and  points  of  business.  Anxiety 
gnawed  the  vitals  of  the  poet,  who,  in  return,  gnawed  his  finger- 
nails, unless  lie  was  gnawing  the  mouth-piece  of  his  brier-root. 
Clarence  sat  in  blackness  and  in  gloom.  Was  this  the  light- 
hearted  butterfly,  the  Cigale,  the  sweet  singer  and  mirtli-com- 
peller  ? 

For  the  visits  to  the  September  country-houses — usually  so 
popular  and  so  profitable — had  proved  a  frost.  There  is  nobody 
so  easy  to  amuse  as  the  man  tired  with  tlie  day's  shooting.  Yet 
Clarence  failed  to  amuse  him.  lie  took  down  with  him  a  port- 
folio full  of  new  songs  and  little  entertainments.  Nobody  laughed 
when  he  sang  them.  The  shadow  of  a  forced  smile,  a  look  of 
pity  and  contempt,  or  a  sustained  yawn  was  all  the  recognition 
he  could  get.  And  he  seemed  to  overhear  the  people  whisper- 
ing: "Is  this  the  most  amusing  man  in  London?  Is  this  the 
fellow  they  made  such  a  fuss  about  —  this  little  cad?"  You  see 
that  if  a  man  invited  to  make  us  laugh  fails  to  make  us  lauf^h, 
he  becomes  at  once  a  little  cad ;  that  is  understood.  If  lie  does 
amuse,  he  is  a  little  god.  "  Why,  he  is  as  solemn  as  an  undertaker." 
Just  so;  lie  was  as  solemn  as  an  undertaker,  lie  sat  at  dinner 
with  the  face  of  one  sent  down  to  conduct  a  funeral ;  lie  made 
no  little  jokes;  he  told  no  little  stories;  and  when  he  took  his 
place  at  the  piano  and  arranged  the  mesmeric  smile,  it  was  like 
the  croque-morCs  face  suddenly  lit  up  by  a  jet  of  gas.     From 


A    SHAKY    PARTNERSHIP  209 

every  house  tlie  unfortunate  mime  came  away  with  the  convic- 
tion that  he  had  failed,  and  that  this  would  be  his  last  visit. 

"  I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  he  said,  naturally  laying  the  blame 
on  his  partner.  "  I  knew  when  I  took  the  infernal  things  with 
me  that  the  intolerable  vulgarity  would  damn  them." 

"  Vulgarity,"  the  poet  repeated.  "  Look  here.  Clary,  I  don't 
raind  your  calling  the  things  vulgar.  They  were  meant  to  be. 
For  that  class  of  people  you  can't  be  too  vulgar.  I'm  not  in  the 
circles  myself,  but  I  know  what  everybody  knows — that  they  like 
vulgarity.  The  vulgarity  of  the  stage  is  meant  for  the  stalls.  If 
anything,  they  were  not  vulgar  enough.  But  a  poet  who  respects 
himself  must  draw  the  line  somewhere." 

"  Why  did  they  go  as  flat  as  ditch-water,  then  ?" 

"  Because  of  the  singer,  Clarence,  my  boy.  Because  they  were 
badly  sung." 

"  They  were  not  badly  sung." 

"They  were.  The  songs  are  as  good  as  anything  I  ever  did. 
Went  as  flat  as  ditch-water,  did  they  ?  Well,  I  should  think  they 
would,  considering.  Flat  as  ditch-water!  Why?  Because — " 
here  he  interposed  some  of  those  words  which  relieve  the  feelings 
and  heighten  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  truth.  "  Because  you're 
losing  everything — everything  —  your  art — your  memory — your 
imagination  —  hang  it,  your  very  face  is  changed  !  I  wish  to 
Heaven  you  had  never  heard  of  this  cursed  estate,  of  which 
you'll  never  touch  a  single  penny — you  can't — with  a  case  so  in- 
complete. Your  very  nature  is  changed.  You,  with  the  happy- 
go-lucky  laugh ;  you,  with  the  light  touch  ;  you,  with  the  twin- 
kling eye  ;  you,  with  the  musical  voice  ;  you,  Clary  Burghley  that 
was — good  heavens!  you  look  as  if  you  couldn't  laugh  if  you 
tried.  You  hang  your  head ;  you  scowl ;  your  eyes  have  gone 
in  and  your  forehead  has  come  out.  It  bulges.  I  say  it  bulges. 
To  think  that  I  should  live  to  see  your  forehead  bulge!  You've 
gone  back  to  your  great-grandfather,  the  Westminster  miser." 

"  I  can't  help  it.  It's  the  thought  of  the  thing  that's  with  me 
always — " 

"Don't  tell  me.  As  if  I  didn't  know  !  Now,  look  here.  Clary. 
Let  us  understand  each  other.  Ours  has  been  a  very  successful 
business,  so  far,  hasn't  it  ?  I  invent  the  pieces  and  write  the 
songs.     All  you've  got  to  do   is  to  sing  them.     You've  sung 


310  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

them  vcrv  well  up  till  now,  and  I  don't  think  I  conld  find  a  better 
interpreter  anywhere.  All  the  same,  clearly  I  can'l  afford  to  go 
on  unless  business  is  attended  to." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  then  ?" 

"  Do  ?  I  want  you  to  be  yourself  again.  That  isn't  much  to 
ask,  is  it?  Look  here,  ray  boy.  The  thing  presses.  It'll  get 
about  like  wildfire  that  you  can't  make  'em  laugh  any  longer. 
Then  you're  a  ruined  Johnnie,  because  if  you  can't  do  that,  yoa 
see,  you  can't  do  anything." 

"  What  do  you  want,  then  ?"  Clarence  repeated,  sullenly. 

"  I  shall  find  it  difficult  to  replace  yon,  Clary,  but  there  are  lots 
of  other  fellows  who  could  do  the  thing.  I've  been  talking 
it  over  with  one  —  a  man  who's  been  on  at  the  Oxford.  He 
isn't  a  gentleman,  and  lie'd  have  to  go  up  the  back  stairs ;  so  it 
wouldn't  be  quite  the  same  thing.  Still,  one  cannot  sit  down 
and  starve.  What  you  will  do,  my  dear  boy,  with  your  face  as 
ghim  as  an  undertaker's,  I  don't  know." 

"It's  my  claim  that  I  think  of  all  the  time.  If  we  could  only 
connect  my  grandfather  with  the  family.  Because  the  missing 
son  is  dead  long  ago;  he  must  be." 

The  poet  groaned.  "  That's  all  you  think  about.  I  talk  of 
the  business,  and  you  reply  with  this  claim  of  yours." 

Clarence  looked  all  that  his  partner  had  described  him — hag- 
gard, anxious,  hollow-cheeked.  The  fever  of  the  claimant  was 
upon  him.  His  face  was  full  of  anxiety.  It  was  easy  to  see  that, 
as  his  partner  said,  he  had  lost  his  art— at  least,  for  a  time.  The 
ready  laugh,  the  light  of  the  eye,  the  quick  smile,  the  easy  car- 
Piage — all  had  vanished.  You  could  not  believe  that  this  young 
man  liad  ever  been  able  to  compel  laughter. 
"Must  we  dissolve  partnership.  Clary?" 

"  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  the  claim.  You  must  do  what 
you  like.  Until  this  suspense  is  over,  I  can  think  of  nothing 
else." 

"  Look  here.  Clary.  At  the  best,  the  very  best,  it  will  prove  a 
waiting  business.  They'll  give  the  missing  son  or  his  heirs  ten 
years'  law  before  tliey  consider  the  claimants— and  when  they  do, 
i  tell  you  plainly,  your  case  is  not  established.  Give  over  the 
dreams,  therefore,  and  attend  to  business.  Even  if  you  suc- 
ceed at  last,  you've  got  to  keep  yourself  for  ten  years  to  come — 


A    SHAKY    PARTNERSHIP  211 

perhaps  for  life.  Attend  to  business,  I  say.  Begin  at  once.  Sit 
down  at  the  piano  and  try  to  sing  as  you  used  to  do." 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  Clarence  replied,  in  the  depths  of  gloom. 
"I've  got  something  to  show  you  first.  It's  about  that  connec- 
tion. Suppose  I  had  found  another  document" — he  pulled  out 
a  pocket-book  and  opened  it — "an  important  document — nothing 
less  than  a  letter  to  my  grandfather  from  his  elder  brother." 

"  Letter  to  your  grandfather  from  his  elder  brother?  Why, 
how  came  I  to  miss  that  among  the  papers?  Why,  such  a  letter 
might  complete  the  chain." 

"  So  I  thought.  And,  in  fact,  here  is  the  letter.  It  was  not 
among  the  letters  that  I  sliowed  you.  I  only  found  it  yesterday." 
He  spoke  with  hesitation,  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of 
paper  a  little  browned  by  age.  It  was  the  size  of  a  royal  octavo 
page.     It  was  written  in  ink,  now  pale,  but  was  still  legible. 

The  poet  opened  it — looked  up  sharply  and  curiously — and  then 
read  the  contents  aloud  : 

"Dear  Harry, — Yours  of  the  15tli  to  hand.  I  can  do  noth- 
ing for  you  with  father.  He  is  mad  with  you  for  running  away 
and  for  going  on  the  stage.  Says  that  you've  disgraced  the 
family.  He  grows  more  miserly  every  day.  I  hope  that  your 
prospects  will  improve  before  long.  They  don't  seem  at  present 
very  rosy.  I  quite  approve  of  your  changing  your  name.  The 
pronunciation,  I  take  it,  remains  the  same,  in  spite  of  the  two  let- 
ters stuck  in  the  middle.  My  mother  sends  her  love. 
"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"  John  Clarence  Burley. 

"Great  College  SrnKET,  ^Ykstminsteu, 
Jiivc  20//1,  1818." 

When  the  partner  had  read  this  valuable  letter  he  held  the 
paper  up  to  the  light;  he  examined  tlie  writing ;  he  looked  at 
the  edges. 

"  Most  convincing,"  he  said.  "  This  letter  establislics  tlie  con- 
nection beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  And  this  being  so. 
Clary,  you  may  rest  at  ease,  and  can  give  your  mind  to  business." 

He  threw  the  letter  on  the  floor  carelessly  and  walked  over  to 
the  piano,  which  he  opened.     Then  he  sat  down,  ran  his  fingers 


213  DEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

over  llic  Icoys,  and  struck  into  an  air — one  of  Iiis  own  light,  unsub- 
stantial tunes.  "  Now,  then,  Clary,"  he  said,  "  you  are  the  heir 
all  right.  I  congratulate  you.  Give  up  thinking  about  it  for  ten 
years.  This  is  the  song  that  ought  to  have  fetched  'era  and 
didn't.  Come  along  and  give  it  with  your  old  spirit.  Think  of 
your  granddad. 

"Wanted,  a  Methusaleh !     To  toll  us  how  they  kept  it  up — 

Our  fatliers  in  the  by-gones,  when  they  made  the  guineas  run; 
How  tliey  wasted  time  and  draiilc  it  up,  and  cverytliing  but  slept  it  up — 
And  always  had  a  new  love  on  before  the  old  was  done. 

"Wanted,  a  Methusaleh!     Old  man,  let's  have  a  crack  again; 

The  port  and  punch,  the  song  and  laugh,  the  good  old  nights  revive 
again. 
Tlie  gallop  with  the  runaway  to  Gretna  Green  and  back  again, 
Tiie  Mollys  and  the  Dollys  and  the  Kittys  make  alive  again  ! 

Come,  Clary,  your  liveliest  manner.  It  wants  a  laugliing  face  all 
through." 

Clary  paid  no  attention.  Then  his  partner  shut  the  piano  with 
a  bang  and  a  swear-word. 

"You  think,  then,"  Clarence  went  on,  as  if  there  had  been  no 
break  in  the  conversation,  "that  the  letter  establishes  the  connec- 
tion ?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  my  dear  boy.  I  congratulate  you.  The  con- 
nection is  established,  and,  I  repeat,  now  that  your  mind  is  at 
rest,  you  can  go  back  to  your  work.  In  ten  years'  time,  or  there- 
abouts, we  will  consider  the  letter  again." 

"The  letter  is— is— all  right,  you  think?" 

"Oh!  Quite — quite,"  James  replied,  airily.  "  We  need  not 
consider  the  thing  seriously  for  ten  years  to  come — otherwise — " 

"Well?     Otherwise?" 

"Otherwise  there  would  be  one  or  two  points  requiring  expla- 
nation. For  instance,  letters  seventy  years  ago  were  written  on 
letter-paper  —  square  —  size;  a  quarter-sheet  of  foolscap.  Take 
a  half-slieet  of  foolscap:  there  is  your  letter-paper  of  that  period. 
This  is  written  on  a  blank  page  cut  or  torn  out  of  an  old  book. 
One  edge,  I  remark,  is  freshly  cut.  Letters  used  always  to  be 
folded  in  one  way — not  this  way.  There  was  always  a  postmark 
of  some  kind  on  a  letter  which  had  travelled  through  the  post." 


A    SHAKY    PARTNERSHIP  213 

Clarence  groaned. 

"  Moreover,  the  Treasury  must  have  heaps  of  documents  in 
John  Barley's  handwriting.  I  wonder  wlicther  the  handwritin"- 
corresponds." 

Clarence  made  no  reply. 

"It  looks  to  me  like  a  modern  hand;  not  unlike  your  own, 
Clary.  Then  I  observe  certain  locutions  which  were  not  com- 
monly used  seventy  years  ago  ;  they  didn't,  for  instance,  say 
*  mad '  with  a  man,  but  angry  with  a  man  ;  and  the  modern  poet- 
ical use  of  the  adjective  '  rosy  '  was  then,  T  believe,  unknown  in 
common  parlance.  Further,  in  June,  1822,  your  great -grand- 
motlier,  who  sends  her  love,  had  been  dead,  according  to  the 
register  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  for  nearly  two  years.  These 
are  points  which  in  ten  years'  time  may  not  appear  of  any  impor- 
tance." 

He  laid  the  letter  on  the  table.  "  Shall  we  get  to  business,  my 
partner?"  he  asked. 

"I  told  you" — Clarence  picked  up  the  letter  and  looked  at  it 
gloomily — "  that  I  should  go  mad  or  something.  I  haven't  even 
wits  enough  left  to  forge  a  letter  creditably." 

"That  seems  rather  a  good  thing,  doesn't  it?" 

Clarence  laughed.  "  What  would  my  grandfather  say  ?  All 
he  cared  for  was  that  the  business  —  whatever  it  was  —  should 
be  well  done.  Life  was  all  stage  business  with  him.  Business 
of  forging  letters?  Good  business,  sometimes.  Pleases  people. 
But  must  be  well  done.  To  think  that  I  should  expect  a  clumsy, 
self-evident,  ignorant  piece  of  work  like  this  to  deceive  anybody  !" 
lie  threw  the  thing  into  the  tire.  "Look  here,  I  told  you  about 
the  old  man's  comedy,  didn't  I  ?  Everything  was  justified  by  the 
cause.  So  he  opened  letters,  told  barefaced  lies,  acknowledged 
them  blandly  when  they  were  found  out;  borrowed  money  under 
false  pretences,  forged  a  deed,  and  all  to  save  from  dishonor  the 
son  of  a  dead  friend.  lie  would  quite  approve — I  know  he  would 
— of  my  writing  such  a  letter.  I  would  write  it,  too,  I  would, 
if  I  knew  the  handwriting,  in  order  to  complete  tliat  claim.  And 
I  should  never  feel  ashamed,  or  sorry,  or  repentant  if  I  got  the 
estates  by  it.     I  should  not  feel  ashamed  if  I  were  found  out." 

"The  moralist  sighs,"  said  the  poet,  "the  friend  sympathizes, 
the  beak  condemns." 


214  BEYOND  THE  UKEAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  If  I  can't  prove  my  case  one  way  I  will  anotlier.  I  am  tlie 
rightful  heir  to  millions!  Millions!  Millions!"  He  screamed 
tlie  words  and  threw  np  liis  arms.  It  was  like  the  screech  of  an 
hysterical  girl.  "  Millions!  And  all  that  is  wanted  is  a  little  let- 
ter connecting  my  grandfather  with  his  own  people.  That  is  all. 
You  may  talk  about  honor  as  much  as  you  like.  I  want  my 
rights!     I  want  my  rights!     I  will  have  my  rights !" 

His  voice  broke,  his  hands  shook,  his  face  was  drawn  and  con- 
vulsed. The  other  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  caught  him  as  he 
reeled. 

"  Sit  down,  old  man,"  he  said  ;  "  sit  down  and  be  quiet.  Good 
heavens!  This  cursed  claim  will  kill  you,  if  you  do  not  take 
care." 

Clarence  lay  back  —  white  —  with  closed  eyes.  Presently  he 
opened  them  and  sat  up.  "Don't  mind  me.  Jemmy,"  he  said. 
"  I  get  carried  away  sometimes.  Last  night,  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  I  woke  up  and  went  mad  over  this  business,  and  I  think  I 
had  some  kind  of  a  fit.     I  found  myself  lying  on  the  floor." 

"This  magnificent  good-luck.  Clary,  this  extraordinary  wind- 
fall, seems  likely  to  bring  with  it,  in  its  train,  a  wonderful  collec- 
tion of  blessings.  Already  it  has  robbed  you  of  your  powers; 
robbed  you  of  your  face ;  robbed  you  of  your  laugh,  and  robbed 
you  of  your  voice.  Good  Lord!  What  a  windfall !  It  has  filled 
your  mind  with  anxiety  and  gloom,  made  you  commit  a  forgery, 
makes  you  regret  only  that  it  was  a  clumsy  foigery,  and  tempts 
you  to  commit  another  and  a  more  careful  one!  It  throws  you 
into  fits  at  night  and  makes  you  hysterical  by  day  !  Clarence 
Burghley,  there  must  be  a  devil  in  this  fortune  of  yours.  'The 
Devil  in  a  Fortune'  might  make  a  sort  of  recitative  thing  with  a 
rattling  air  running  through  it.  The  Devil  in  a  Fortune.  Eh?" 
He  took  up  the  note-book. 

"I  tell  of  a  mountain  of  gold — 
A  monstrous,   incrediblo  hill ; 
With  a  devil  to  guard  it  and  hold, 
A  devil  of  wonderful  will. 

"And  every  sinner  tliat  dared 
To  carry  a  nugget  away 
With  whackery,  thwackery  clawing  of  claws, 
Pawing  of  paws — 


A    SHAKY    PARTNERSHIP  315 

I  believe,  Clary,  we  can  make  something  of  it  when  you  get  bet- 
ter." 

"It  is  the  wretched  uncertainty,"  said  Clarence,  brooking  the 
question  of  the  devil. 

"And  all  for  nothing.  Because  you'll  never  get  it  —  never,  t 
am  convinced.  You  will  never  get  it — never  —  never.  Now, 
Clary,  I  am  going  to  see  that  other  fellow,  the  man  from  the 
music-hall.  But  I  would  rather  keep  you,  and  I'll  give  you  time. 
As  for  existing  engagements,  you  won't  keep  them.  You  are  in- 
disposed— you  have  got  influenza.  I'll  give  you  time — never 
fear — to  pull  yourself  together." 

"  Why  should  I  not  succeed  ?" 

"  Lots  of  reasons.  The  malignity  of  fortune  or  fate — that's 
one  thing.  Fate  dangles  this  wonderful  prize  before  your  eyes — 
puts  it  just,  not  quite,  within  your  reach.  History  is  full  of  ma- 
lignity— witness  Napoleon  and  Moscow." 

"Talk  sense,  man." 

"  Very  well.  Other  reasons.  Because  you  can't  prove  that 
you  belong  to  the  people  at  all.  To  you  and  to  me  there  is  no 
doubt.  But  you  can't  prove  it  to  the  lawyers.  Therefore  you  will 
'never  get  it." 

"Any  more  reasons?" 

"Lots.  The  missing  son  or  his  heir  will  turn  up  and  take 
everything." 

"No.     That  is  impossible,  after  all  this  time." 

"They'll  And  a  will." 

"They  have  searched  everywhere,  and  there  is  no  will." 

"  There  arc  more  reasons — but  I  refrain.  The  long  and  the  short 
of  it  is  that  they  will  give  the  son  ten  years  at  least  before  they 
consider  the  claims.     And  when  they  do,  you  will  have  no  chance." 

Clarence  groaned. 

"The  question,  therefore,  between  us  is,  shall  the  partnership 
be  dissolved  ?" 

Clarence  groaned  again. 

"You  can't  get  it  out  of  your  mind.  Then  put  it  in  the  back- 
ground. Don't  brood  over  it ;  something  may  turn  up.  The 
Treasury  people,  even,  may  find  letters  that  will  actually  prove 
your  claims.  Take  a  cheerful  view  of  the  thing  —  and  meantime 
go  back  to  your  work." 


316  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

'*  I  don't  feci  as  if  I  could  ever  sing  another  song,  Jemmy.  Do 
without  me.     Get  another  partner." 

The  poet  used  a  strong — a  very  strong  expression — and  slapped 
liis  partner  cheerily  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Not  just  yet,  Clary.  I  can  understand  now  how  a  man  may 
be  possessed  by  the  devil.  You  are  possessed  by  some  devil  or 
other.  You  are  possessed  by  this  Fortune  devil,  and  it's  only  the 
devil  that  you'll  ever  get  and  not  the  fortune.  "  I'll  wait  a  bit, 
dear  demoniac." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE     GENEALOGIST 

Sir  John  went  about  for  some  days  with  an  air  of  great  re- 
serve. Questioned  about  the  clew,  be  smiled  with  importance 
and  demanded  patience.  "But,  of  course,"  said  the  girls, 
separately  and  in  a  choir,  "  we  understand.  We  are  going  to 
establish  our  connection  with  this  mysterious,  misrepresented, 
misfortunate,  misled,  misspelt  family."  Calamities  many  bad 
fallen  upon  the  family — yet  it  was  an  interesting  family,  and 
distinguished  in  a  way.  There  are  not  many  families  which 
can  boast  of  a  fortune  made,  not  lost,  out  of  the  South  Sea 
Bubble ;  nor  arc  there  many  who  can  show  a  real  gentleman 
highwayman.  And  a  real  miser — one  of  the  good  old  candle- 
end,  cheese-paring  sort  —  is  an  ornament  to  every  family;  he 
may,  and  has,  occurred  quite  high  up  on  the  social  ladder. 

The  girls  looked  on  ;  they  chattered  among  themselves  and 
watched  the  paternal  countenance.  It  was  grave,  it  was  pre- 
occupied, but  it  was  cheerful.  They  comforted  themselves, 
the  clew  was  being  followed ;  the  clew  would  end  in  a  key, 
the  key  would  open  a  box,  or  a  door,  or  a  cupboard ;  and  then 
the  fair  maid  Truth  would  be  found  most  beautifully  dressed 
within.  They  called  at  the  ancestral  house;  they  filled  the 
house  with  the  lauijhter  and  the  chatter  of  girlish  voices. 

In  point  of  fact.  Sir  John  Burleigh,  genealogy  in  hand,  and 
those  ascertained  facts  connected  with  the  Bristol  sugar-baker, 
had  called  in  the  assistance  of  an  experienced  and  obliging 
person  who  made  it  his  business  to  ennoble  the  world,  or  at 
least  to  enlarge  the  too  narrow  limits  of  gentility — for  a  con- 
sideration. Provided  with  a  clew,  this  benevolent  person  was 
getting  on  as  rapidly  as  could  be  desired. 

The  artist  in  pedigrees,  an  old  man  now,  presented  the  ap- 


218  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

pcarance  and  simulated  the  manners  of  a  duke,  or  an  earl  at 
least,  lie  was  a  handsome  man  still,  who  knew  the  value  of 
good  appearance  and  good  dress  ;  he  was  what  is  called  a  "  clean  " 
old  man.  Many  old  men  who  take  a  tub  every  day  cannot 
achieve  the  appearance  conveyed  by  this  adjective.  ]Iis  face 
was  shaven,  except  for  a  heavy  white  mustache ;  he  was  tall ; 
his  large  hands,  as  white  as  his  snowy  linen,  were  covered  with 
signet-rings,  lie  sat  in  a  room  massively  furnished  ;  one  wall 
was  filled  with  a  bookcase  containing  those  county  histories  and 
genealogies  which  are  so  costly  and  such  good  reading,  contain- 
ing as  they  do  the  simple  annals  of  the  great.  There  are  all  the 
Visitations  which  have  been  published  ;  with  books  of  all  sorts 
on  descents,  ascents,  heraldry,  the  nobles,  and  the  gentles. 
Over  the  mantel  hung  his  own  pedigree,  a  very  beautiful  thing, 
one  branch  connecting  with  royalty  in  the  person  of  Edward  I. 
For  one  should  always  practise  what  one  preaches.  Also,  one 
should  live  up  to  one's  profession.  And  to  be  always  in  the 
midst  of  noble  ancestors  and  to  find  none  for  yourself  would 
be  a  clear  proof  of  professional  incapacity. 

The  Professor  of  Family  Ascents — who  would  not  climb? — 
received  Sir  John  with  encouraging  attention. 

"  You  want  to  connect  yourself,  Sir  John,"  he  said,  "  with 
an  English  family  ?  A  natural  ambition,  especially  when  one 
has  risen  to  the  proud  distinction  of  Knight  Commander  of  the 
Order  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George."  He  rolled  out  the  title 
as  if  the  mere  sound  of  it  was  an  enjoyment.  "  Now,  Sir 
John,  place  me  in  full  possession  of  all  the  facts — all  the  facts, 
if  you  please — and  the  papers — all  the  papers.  Then  I  will  do 
my  best  to  assist  you." 

Sir  John  related  the  history  as  he  Avished  the  world  to  pos- 
sess it.  There  was  nothing  false  in  his  statement — only  a  sup- 
pressio  veri.  Well,  you  quite  understand  how  he  put  it.  We 
need  not  dwell  upon  the  little  suppression. 

"  I  have  noted  your  facts,  sir.  Father,  named  Charles  Cal- 
vert Burleigh,  born  1801,  married  somewhere  about  the  year 
1834  to  a  lady  whose  Christian  name  was  Marian  Welford. 
Emigrated  to  New  Zealand  in  the  year  1842,  being  one  of  the 
earliest  settlers.  Succeeded  with  his  farm  and  acquired  prop- 
erty.    Died  in  1873,  and  never  told  you — •" 


THE    GENEALOGIST  219 

"  I  never  questioned  him." 

"  Never  told  you  who  he  was,  and  your  mother  observed  the 
same  silence.     Any  more  facts?" 

"None." 

"  Perhaps  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  people.  Well,  Sir  John, 
we  need  not  speculate  as  to  causes.  We  are  here  connected 
with  the  facts.     Where  are  the  papers  1" 

"  There  arc  none ;  not  even  my  mother's  marriage  certificate. 
But  we  claim  nothing,  so  it  does  not  matter." 

"  Oh  !"  The  genealogist  placed  his  chin  in  his  left  hand  and 
fell  into  meditation. 

"There  is,  however,  a  presumption,  based  on  what  may  be 
a  coincidence." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  the  professional  discoverer  lifted  his  head, 
"  in  our  work  we  want  all  the  presumption  we  can  get" — he  did 
not  mean  a  double  use  of  the  word — "  and  all  the  coincidences 
we  can  find.     Coincidence  is  the  guiding-star  of  genealogy." 

"  This  coincidence  is  nothing  less  than  an  extraordinary  re- 
semblance between  ourselves — my  son,  my  daughters,  and  my- 
self— with  a  certain  group  of  family  pictures." 

"  Yes.  Of  course  you  are  aware,  Sir  John,  that  such  a  resem- 
blance may  throw  the  door  open  to  a  fine  field  of  scandal.  The 
first  Duke  of —     But  you  understand." 

"  I  think  that  we  need  not  fear  that  kind  of  scandal." 

"  Is  it  a  noble  family  ?" 

"  Very  much  the  contrary." 

"  In  that  case,  I  should  say,  do  not  let  us  trouble  ourselves 
about  the  resemblance,  unless  there  are  other  reasons." 

"This  family  is  named  Burley ;  their  great  wealth  has  brought 
them  very  much  before  the  public  of  late." 

"You  mean  the  great  Burley  fortune?  My  dear  sir,  if  you 
can  connect  yourself  with  that  family — your  name  is  spelled  dif- 
ferently— but" — he  shook  liis  head — "it  is  one  thing  to  connect 
a  colonial  or  an  American  family  with  an  English  House — even 
a  noble  House — and  quite  another  to  prove  things  as  lawyers  re- 
quire proof.  Quite  another  thing,  sir,  I  assure  you.  Quite  an- 
other thing.  And  without  papers,  letters,  or  any  kind  of  evi- 
dence, almost  impossible." 

"  I  think  that  you  do  not  quite  understand." 


230  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

**  What  I  mean,  Sir  Jolin,  is  this.  You  come  to  me  without 
any  papers  and  two  or  three  facts.  If  you  say,  connc(;t  me  with 
this  or  that  noble  House,  I  am  not  liampered  by  any  nasty  facts. 
It  is  a  mere  question  wliere  to  hitch  you  on — and  matter  of  the 
expense  you  care  to  undertake.  To  make  a  man  cousin  to  a 
coronet  naturally  costs  more  than  to  make  him  cousin  to  a  bar- 
onet ;  and  this  again  naturally  costs  more  than  a  connection  with 
mere  tradespeople." 

"  Naturally.  If  it  is  only  a  question  of  inventing  a  geneal- 
ogy—" 

"My  dear  sir, we  do  not  invent;  we  connect — we  connect.  It 
is  always  perfectly  easy  to  connect  any  family  with  gentlefolk  of 
sorts,  and  almost  any  real  gentlefolk  with  nobility  of  some  kind. 
If  you  like,  I  dare  say  I  could  connect  you  with  royalty.  Mere 
time,  mere  search,  in  order  to  find  where  to  hitch  on  ;  that  is 
all.  But  of  course  it  is  a  great  advantage  to  start  practically 
unhampered,  as  you  do.  Now,  you  don't  know  your  father's  fam- 
ily. And  you  have  no  traditions  about  it.  He  never  told  you. 
"What  must  we  therefore  conclude  ?  That  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
family  or  ashamed  of  himself." 

Sir  John  changed  color.  "  I  do  not  agree,"  lie  said  ;  "  other 
reasons  might  be  found." 

"  Illegitimacy,  perhaps.  Humble  origin.  Early  escapades. 
One  or  other  must  be  the  cause." 

Sir  John  said  nothing. 

"  If  we  investigate  with  the  sole  desire  to  ascertain  the  truth 
we  must  expect  humiliation.  That  is  all.  Let  us  go  on.  You 
wish  to  be  connected  with  the  Burley  family — quite  a  middle- 
class  bourgeois  family — and  you  do  not  desire  to  claim  their 
monstrous  estate.  As  you  have  no  papers,  you  would  have  no 
chance.  If  I  were  you  I  would  soar  higher,  much  higher  ;  we 
might  connect  you  with  the  Cecils  or  the  Howards  in  some  way 
— an  illegitimate  way  would  be  the  easiest ;  but  as  you  will.  Let 
us  return  to  the  Burley  family.  For  my  own  purposes,!  have  been 
hunting  for  the  sons  of  the  famous  Westminster  miser — broth- 
ers of  the  money-lender.     I  cannot  find  any  trace  of  them — " 

"  You  must  go  further  back  to  find  my  ancestor." 

"  Very  well ;  you  stick  to  your  plebeian  lot  ?  Very  well ;  I  will 
investigate  for  you.    Well,  now,  about  the  sprndle  line.    On  your 


THE    GENEALOGIST  221 

father's  side  you  will  be  plain  Barley ;  but  you  had  a  mother.  On 
her  side,  now, what  can  Ave  do  for  you?  On  your  grandmother's 
side — what?  On  your  great-grandmother's?  See  Avhat  a  vista 
opens  before  you  !  Why,  only  to  go  back  so  far  as  the  accession 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  you  had  then  4096  living  ancestors ;  to  go 
back  to  Edward  III.,  you  had  131,072  ancestors.  Do  you  think 
I  cannot  find  you  a  noble  family  or  two  among  so  many  ?  You 
want  ancestors  ?  Let  me  find  you  some  that  you  can  be  proud 
of.  Why,  you  are  founding  a  family.  You  will  become  a  bar- 
onet. If  you  like,  you  may  become  a  peer.  How  will  it  be  in 
years  to  come  to  read :  '  This  branch  of  a  noble  House,  which 
traces  its  ancestry  back  to  —  shall  we  say  Cardinal  Pole?  in 
the  female  line,  was  first  distinguished  by  Sir  John  Burleigh, 
K.C.M.Gr.,  the  well-known  statesman  of  Nev/  Zealand'?  What 
do  you  think  of  that.  Sir  John  ?" 

Even  a  statesman  is  not  above  the  softening  influence  of 
flattery.     Sir  John  heard.     Sir  John  smiled. 

"  You  see  ;  but  if  my  hands  are  tied — " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  tie  your  hands.  Connect  me  with  any 
noble  House  you  like.  But  you  must  first  connect  me  with 
these  Burley  people.  Mind,  I  say  again,  I  won't  lay  claim  to 
the  estate.  I  have  the  Burley  genealogy  with  me.  Here  it  is. 
I  must  belong  to  them.  My  girls,  in  fact,  have  seen  the  por- 
traits, and  there  can  be  no  doubt  possible." 

He  took  the  pedigree  and  examined  it.  "  x\nd  with  which  of 
these  branches  would  you  wish  to  be  connected  ?  Not  too  close 
to  the  money-lender,  or  you  may  have  to  be  a  claimant  whether 
you  like  it  or  not ;  and  then  the  absence  of  papers  may  clash 
with  my  work.  An  undistinguished  lot — not  one  armiger  ;  I 
should  say,  no  coat  of  arms." 

"  I  have  mine.  The  College  of  Heralds  found  mine  when  I 
was  knighted." 

"  You  can  give  me  that ;  it  may  be  of  use." 

"  I  am  morally  certain  " — Sir  John  winced  a  little  at  the 
utterance  of  this  tremendous  fib — "  morally  certain,"  he  re- 
peated, "  that  we  come  from  this  Joshua  Calvert  Burley,  born  in 
1778." 

"Morally!  morally! — we  don't  recognize  morals  in  geneal- 
ogies, Sir  John.     But  still,  what  is  known  about  him  ?" 


222  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  Hc  is  said  to  have  become  r  sugar-baker  at  Bristol." 

"  Sugar-baker  ?  Oh  !  Sir  Jolin,  why  not  a  distinguished  officer 
in  the  Austrian  service?" 

"Sugar-baker  at  Bristol,"  Sir  John  repeated,  firmly,  "lie 
altered  the  spelling  of  his  name  to  Burleigh — 1-c-i-g-h." 

"Oh  !     No  documents,  I  suppose?" 

"None.  My  father,  Charles  Calvert  Burley,  born  in  1801, 
succeeded  to  his  father's  business,  was  unfortunate,  lost  his 
money  ;  and  in  184.3,  when  I  was  six  or  seven  years  of  age,  went 
to  New  Zealand." 

"Ah!  Well,  Sir  John,  you  must  leave  it  with  me.  Very 
unpromising  materials — very  unpromising  indeed.  Still,  I  will 
do  my  best.     About  the  terms,  now  ?" 

The  terms,  when  imparted  and  grasped,  carried  Avith  them 
a  wide  extension  of  knowledge.  If  it  takes  time  to  build  up 
a  family,  it  costs  money  to  buy  one  ready -built.  To  whioh 
nobody  ought  to  object. 

"Very  well,  Sir  John,"  the  genealogist  concluded,  "your 
instructions  shall  be  followed  out.  Look  in  whenever  vou  like, 
and  find  out  how  we  are  getting  on.  We  shall  certainly  hitch 
you  on  to  some  good  family  somehow  or  other.  It's  unfort- 
unate about  these  pictures  and  their  likeness  to  you — because, 
you  see,  when  a  man  has  all  the  noble  Houses  in  the  country  to 
choose  from,  there's  no  reason  whatever — unless  it's  the  money 
— why  you  should  even  begin  with  a  middle-class  lot  like  this. 
And  your  features.  Sir  John,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so, 
possess  a  cut  so  aristocratic.  A  thousand  pities!  You  remind 
me  of  the  portraits  of  his  royal  highness  the  late  Duke  of  Sus- 
sex.    How  should  you  like  a  royal  grandfather  ?" 

"  I  belong,  you  see,  to  the  Calvert  Burleys,"  Sir  John  replied. 

"  Good — good  !  After  all,  is  there  anything  so  admirable  as 
family  pride,  even  if  it  leads  to  a  milk-walk  ?  Leave  it  to  me, 
and  call  again,  say  in  a  week." 

And  thus,  you  see,  the  clew,  once  found,  was  followed  up. 

Great,  indeed,  are  the  resources  of  science,  especially  the  sci- 
ence of  genealogy.  After  a  surprisingly  short  interval,  consid- 
ering the  extent  of  the  necessary  researches.  Sir  John  was  en- 
abled to  exhibit  to  his  delighted  family  a  genealogy  complete 
in  every  branch.     It  appeared  that  his  opinion  was  quite  right, 


THE    GENEALOGIST 


223 


as  the  new  genealogy  conclusively  proved.  This  branch  of  the 
family  was  descended  from  Joshua  Calvert  Burley,  born  1778, 
who  was  Sir  John's  grandfather  and  the  brother  of  the  West- 
minster miser.  The  pedigree  was  most  beautifully  written  on 
parchment,  and  illustrated  with  shields  properly  colored.  Its  ap- 
pearance alone  carried  conviction  to  every  candid  mind.  Leav- 
ing out  the  intermediate  stages  and  the  unnecessary  names,  the 
document  ran  as  follows  : 


Albciic  De  Verc, 
E.  of  Oxford 


Lord  Clifford 


John  of  Gaunt, 
D.  of  Lancaster 


Calvert  Burley 

I 
John  Calvert  Burley 

I 
John  Calvert  Burley 


John  Calvert  Burley       Joshua  Calvert  Burley 
m.  Penelope  Maiden 


Henry  Maiden,  J.P. 
Penelope  Maiden 
Charles  IL 


Gen.  Sir  T.  ILWelford, 
K.C.B. 

Charles  Calvert  Burley  I 

(b.  1801 ;  d.  1875)  m.  Marian 'Welford        Marion  Wclford 

I 

John  Calvert  Burleigh,  K.C.M.G. 

(b  1837)  m.  Agneta  Clithe 

I 

Herbert  John  Calvert  (b.  1867) 

This,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  was  a  genealogy  worth  pay^ 
ing  for. 

"It  works  out,  Sir  John,"  said  the  man  of  science,  "better 
than  we  expected.  Of  course,  when  we  do  find  a  family  con- 
nection of  any  pretensions,  the  rest  is  easy,  because  it  has  been 
done  over  and  over  again." 

"This  document,  I  suppose,"  said  Sir  John,  tlioughtfully, 
"  will  do  very  well  for  family  purposes,  but  for  a  court  of  law — '^ 

"  As  I  warned  you,  a  court  of  law  requires  papers.  You  would 
cling  to  the  plebeian  side,  and  there  you  are,  you  see.  Don't 
blame  me.  Look  at  their  vulgar  names,  spoiling  the  beautiful 
shields  and  titles  above  them  !  Sugar- baker  !  And  he  marries 
the  descendant  of  kin^s  !" 


224  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"Did  you,  in  the  course  of  your  investigations,  find  out  any- 
thing about  my  connections  on  this  side  ?" 

"  I  found  out  a  good  deal — oh,  yes,  yes,  a  good  deal !"  He 
looked  hard  at  his  client,  who  seemed  entirely  absorbed  in  his 
pedigree. 

"  About  this  Josluia,  now  ?" 

"Well,  you  told  me  about  him,  didn't  you?  Well,  as  you 
said — just  as  you  said — he  was  born,  as  your  genealogy  states, 
in  tlie  year  1778,  and  he  was  baptized,  as  the  books  show,  in 
the  Church  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  Westminster.  lie  was 
educated  at  Westminster  School,  and  he  became  eventually,  as 
you  told  me,  a  sugar-baker — a  sugar-baker"  (he  yawned  slight- 
ly, such  was  his  contempt  of  trade),  "  in  the  city  of  Bristol. 
Ilere  he  married  Penelope  Maiden,  daughter  of  Plenry  Mai- 
den, J.P.,  a  man  also  engaged  in  trade.  Through  the  Maidens 
in  the  female  line  you  descend  from  the  Earls  of  Derby  on  one 
hand  and  the  Barons  Clifford  on  the  other.  His  son,  your  fa- 
ther, married  Marian — " 

"Yes — "  Sir  John  looked  as  if  he  wanted  no  discussion 
about  his  mother. 

"  Marian,  daughter  of  General  Sir  Thomas  Welford,  K.C.B., 
through  whom  you  are  descended — not,  of  course,  legitimately 
— from  Charles  H.  in  one  line,  and  from  John  of  Gaunt,  legit- 
imately, in  another.  Really,  sir,  for  the  son  of  an  early  New 
Zealand  settler,  who  knows  nothing  of  his  own  people  at  all,  I 
think  you  have  come  out  of  this  arduous  and  dangerous — very 
dangerous  —  investigation  admirably.  Your  connection  with 
trade  is  —  ahem!  —  unavoidable,  but  we  have  minimized  it; 
whereas,  two  descents  from  royalty  and  three  earls  and  barons 
in  your  genealogy  make  it,  on  one  side,  more  than  respectable." 

"I  think  I  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  you"  —  Sir  John 
rolled  up  the  parchment  and  put  it  into  its  lovely  morocco 
case  —  "very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir.  My  children  will  be 
pleased;  and  my  grandchildren,  if  I  ever  have  any,  will  be  placed 
on  pedestals.     I  don't  think  I  could  have  come  to  a  cleverer  man." 

"  You  arc  quite  right.  Sir  John,"  the  other  replied,  with  pro- 
fessional modesty  ;  "  it  would  be  impossible." 

"Or  to  a  man  who  more  readily  understood  exactly  what  I 
wanted." 


THE    GENEALOGIST  225 

"  Exactly,  Sir  John." 

So  they  parted.  Sir  John  has  never  told  any  one  how  much 
this  important  document  cost  him  ;  but  he  has  been  heard  to 
express  his  astonishment  that  the  profession  of  genealogist  re- 
mains in  the  hands  of  so  few,  seeing  that  its  possibilities  are  so 
great.  In  these  days  of  doubt  as  to  a  choice  of  profession,  it 
seems  odd,  he  sometimes  says,  that  there  is  not  a  run  upon  it. 

"  Now,  I  wonder,"  said  the  man  of  science,  when  his  client 
left  him,  "  how  much  he  really  knows.  lie  carries  it  off  very 
well,  if  he  does,  for  his  father  was  a  convict  —  it's  all  in  the 
'Annual  Register' — a  convict  transported  for  life — most  likely 
married  another  convict.  Escaped.  No  one  knew  what  became 
of  him.  Went  to  New  Zealand.  Well,  I  sha'n't  tell.  I  won- 
der if  he  really  believes  all  the  truck  ?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Sir  John,  "whether  the  fellow  really  ex- 
pects me  to  believe  his  lying  rubbish  ?  Sugar-baker — bankrupt 
— Baron  Clifford — John  of  Gaunt.  But,  thank  God !  he  does 
not  know,  and  can  never  learn,  the  truth." 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  he  announced  that  he  had  a  dis- 
covery to  reveal. 

"  Is  it  about  the  family  ?"  they  all  asked. 

•'  It  is.  In  point  of  fact,  children,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that 
I  have  cleared  up  the  difficulties,  which,  I  confess,  at  first  sight 
seemed  insuperable.  But  they  have  vanished,  and  I  am  now 
going  to  lay  before  you " — he  produced  a  leather  case  and 
pulled  off  the  top — "  the  complete  and  veritable  history  of  your 
family,  so  far  as  it  has  yet  been  traced." 

"Oh!  And  that  portrait  —  the  later  one  —  is  that  grand- 
father 8" 

"  You  shall  hear.  Meantime,  I  must  tell  you  that,  like  your- 
selves, I  was  convinced  that  these  resemblances  meant  a  great 
deal  more  than  coincidence.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  to  you,  im- 
possible that  we  should  all  be  so  much  like  these  people  with- 
out some  cousinship."  Sir  John  spoke  in  his  ministerial  manner, 
which  was,  of  course,  that  of  one  whose  words  carry  weight. 

"  Certainly  not,"  they  chimed.      "  Oh,  impossible  !" 

"  So  I  considered.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  best  thing 
I  could  do  was  to  put  the  matter  into  the  hands  of  an  expert — 
a  professed  genealogist,  you   know — one  of  those  whose  busi- 

10* 


226  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

ness  it  is  to  hunt  up  ancestors  and  to  prove  claims.  This  I 
did.  I  said  :  '  I  am  the  son  of  So-and-so,  who  was  born  in  1801, 
and  went  to  New  Zealand  in  1842,  when  I  was  about  six  years  of 
age.  I  do  not  know  wlicre  ray  father  came  from,  or  to  what 
condition  or  rank  his  people  belonged.  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  there  is  a  group  of  family  portraits  in  a  certain  house  at 
"Westminster  which  bear  a  most  remarkable  likeness,  first  to  each 
other,  so  that  they  are  all  unmistakable,  and  secondly  to  me 
and  my  children — so  remarkable  as  to  make  it  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  we  must  be  related  to  them.  Their  name  is  the  same 
as  ours,  spelled  with  a  very  slight  difference.'  Those  were  all 
the  facts  that  I  could  give  him,  and  after  a  little  talk  over  them 
I  left  him  to  his  work,  lie  has  now,  after  careful  investigation, 
furnished  me  with  exactly  the  information  I  desired.  And 
here  is  the  genealogy." 

He  spread  it  out  and  began  to  point  out  the  wonderful  acquisi- 
tions, and  the  great  increase  of  family  pride  caused  by  this  re- 
search. 

*'  Your  great-grandfather,"  he  said,  "  is,  you  observe,  not 
the  owner  of  the  first  face  so  like  Herbert's,  but  the  son  of  the 
man  who,  some  of  us  thought,  was  even  more  like  Herbert ; 
his  name  was  Joshua  Calvert  Burley.  He  was  educated  at 
Westminster  School;  on  leaving  school  he  was  placed  in  some 
mercantile  office,  perhaps  as  an  apprentice.  This  matters  noth- 
ing. You  must  be  prepared  for  a  somewhat  humble  connec- 
tion on  your  grandfather's  side.  He  became  a  partner  or  pro- 
prietor of  a  sugar-baking  firm." 

Their  faces  all  lengthened. 

"  Sugar-baking  !     Oh  !     He  was  a  baker." 

"Sugar-baking  is  not  exactly  bread-baking.  He  was  a  sugar- 
baker.  And  why  not?  It  is  possible — or  was  possible — to 
become  enormously  rich  by  sugar-baking.  Well,  for  some 
reason  not  apparent,  probably  because  he  thought  it  looked 
better,  my  grandfather  changed  the  spelling  of  his  name." 

"It  was  done,  then,  at  Bristol?"  asked  Lady  Burleigh.  "I 
hav6  been  thinking,  since  this  business  of  the  portraits,  that 
jour  father,  my  dear,  may  have  got  into  some  scrape — debt — 
or  something,  and  so  thought  it  wiser  to  change  his  name." 

"A  scrape  tlicre  was,  but,  according  to  my  table,  it  was  my 


THE    GENEALOGIST  227 

grandfather  who  changed  his  name.  We]l,  my  father" — he 
hesitated  a  little,  because  it  is  really  embarrassing  at  fifty-eight 
to  start  a  new  father — "  was  made  a  partner  in  the  concern." 

"  The  concern  !"  echoed  the  girls.  "  Have  we  discovered  the 
long-lost  great-grandfather  only  to  learn  that  he  was  a  sugar- 
baker  and  had  a  concern  ?  AYhat  romance  can  we  get  out  of  a 
concern,  however  great  ?" 

"And  then  something  happened.  The  business  fell  into  dif- 
ficulties ;  your  grandfather  lost  most  of  his  fortune  and  emi- 
grated. And  that,  my  children,  is  all  I  have  to  say.  The  rest 
you  can  learn  for  yourselves  from  this  document." 

"  Oh  !" — the  girls  bent  over  the  genealogy,  their  heads  all  to- 
gether. "  It  might  have  been  worse,"  said  Lucy.  "  Herbert 
might  have  had  the  criminal  ancestor  that  he  wants  so  badly. 
Poor  Herbert !  He  wants  either  a  criminal  or  an  aristocrat,  and 
he  will  have  to  put  up  with  a  sugar-baker — a  bankrupt  sugar- 
baker." 

"  A  sugar-baker !"  Sir  John  repeated,  with  emphasis. 
"I  suppose,  my  dear,"  said   his  wife,  "that  all  this  is  quite 
clearly  proved." 

"  He  has  consulted  the  only  authorities,  where  there  are  no 
better — the  parish  registers.     I  think  we  need  never  trouble  to 
go  over  the  ground  again.     Certainly  I  am  convinced  that  it 
would  be  foolish  and  needless  to  do  so." 
"  And  as  to  the  great  estate  ?" 

"  There  we  must  abandon  all  hopes.  You  will  see  that  we 
are  only  the  heirs  failing  the  intermediate  heirs — all  the  sons  of 
the  miser  Burley  first,  and  the  money-lender  Burley  second. 
You  will  not  be  millionaires,  my  dears.  You  will  go  back  to 
New  Zealand,  and  you  will  live  in  comfort  and  plenty,  thank 
God — and  that  is  all." 

But  then  the  girls  found  out  the  magnificent  connections  on 
the  spindle  side,  and  pounced  upon  them.  Heavens  !  A  Gen- 
eral and  a  K.C.B. !  Splendid  !  And  look — higher  up — a  long 
way  higher  up — Oh!  Grandeurs!  Heights!  Soarings!  Sky-scrap- 
ing! Baron  Clifford— Lord— Lord  Clifford  !  That^fine  old  title  ! 
And  here  the  De  Veres — De  Veres — Earls  of  Oxford !  Oh  ! 
actually  the  De  Veres  !  That  great  and  noble  family  !  History 
is  therefore  full  of  the  ancestors  of  these  happy  Burleys.     And 


228  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

look  !  More  grandeur !  Royalty — Cliarlcs  II.  !  But  he  had  no 
children.  Go  on.  Things  taccnda,  yet  not  without  more  pride. 
And  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  Look  !  Look — everybody  !  John  of  Gaunt! 
Time-honored  Lancaster !  Old  John  of  Gaunt !  Good  heavens  ! 
Here  they  stopped  and  gazed  mutely  at  one  another.  "  If  John 
of  Gaunt,"  they  said,  calmly  reasoning  out  the  thing,  "  then  his 
fatlier,  and  his  great-grandfather,  and  so  we  get  to  William  the 
Conqueror  and  King  Alfred.  Oh  !  King  Alfred  our  ancestor  ! 
Father,  is  it  possible  ?     Is  it  really,  really  true  ?" 

"There  is  the  science  of  the  genealogist,  my  girls.  "What 
else  can  I  say  ?" 

Nothing  to  be  said — science  is  indisputable.  So,  when  the 
girls  had  extolled  their  good-fortune  and  cried  upon  the  heavens, 
in  their  amazement  and  their  happiness  they  fell  upon  the  pater- 
nal neck,  and  embraced  witli  fervor  the  simple  K.C.M.G.  who 
united  in  his  own  person  so  many  royal  and  princely  and  noble 
lines, 

"  But,"  they  agreed,  "  these  things  must  not  be  talked  about. 
They  are  best  kept  to  ourselves.  At  home  people  might  be  en- 
vious of  John  of  Gaunt  —  time  -  honored  Lancaster.  Isn't  he 
buried  in  the  Abbey  ?  Let  us  go  and  hang  a  humid  wreath 
upon  his  marble  brow.  Oh  !  And  Charles  II.  Well,  but  there 
is  John  of  Gaunt — John  of  Gaunt — John  of  Gaunt !" 

"  And  the  sugar-baker,"  said  Sir  John. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

A  physician's  advice 

"  Another  cousin,  apparently."  Lucian  tossed  a  card  into 
Mara^aret's  lap.  She  read  it.  "  Mr.  Clarence  Calvert  Biiro-h- 
ley.''  ^ 

"  It  looks  as  if  he  belongs  to  the  family.  Go  and  see  him, 
Lucian.  Perhaps,  like  the  colonial,  he  will  begin  by  having  a 
pain  somewhere." 

Lucian  was  wrong.  His  visitor  made  no  pretence  of  any 
pains,  though  he  looked  miserable  enough  for  all  the  pains  of 
purgatory.  He  went  straight  to  the  point.  "  I  have  seen  in 
the  papers,"  lie  said,  "a  statement  that  you  have  in  your  pos- 
session certain  portraits  belonging  to  the  Barley  family — my 
family — and  I  come  here  in  the  hope  that  you  will  allow  me  to 
see  them." 

Lucian  looked  at  this  new  cousin  curiously.  lie  bore  the 
stamp  or  mark  theatrical.  To  begin  with,  he  wore  a  fur-lined 
coat — Lucian  held  that  fine  raiment  belongs  to  the  other  sex. 
His  face  was  smooth-shaven,  his  speech  was  of  a  studied  clear- 
ness, as  if  he  was  speaking  words  of  a  part — words  written  for 
him — not  his  own  words.  And  his  gestures  were  slightly  ex- 
aggerated. He  took  off  his  hat  as  if  the  action  itself  formed 
part  of  his  visit.  These  things  slightly  irritated  Lucian.  He 
thought  the  manner  of  the  man  was  affected.  It  was  not.  The 
theatrical  manner  was  natural  to  Clarence.  Besides,  at  tliis 
moment  lie  was  horribly  anxious  and  therefore  perfectly  natural. 
His  anxiety  was  sliown  in  the  twitching  of  his  nerves  and  the 
restlessness  of  his  eyes. 

"  Your  family  ?"  Lucian  repeated.  *'  Why,  your  name,  Mr. 
Burghley,  is  spelled  differently." 

"  That  is  true.     My  grandfather,  who  was  an   actor,  altered 


230  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

tho  spelling  of  liis  name  when  he  went  on  the  boards.  Perhaps 
he  thouglit  the  name  looked  better  so." 

Liician  looked  at  him  again.  The  persistent  Burlcy  type 
was  in  his  face,  clearly  marked  and  unmistakable,  though  the 
strength  and  the  resolution  liad  gone  out  of  it. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  ungraciously, "  that  I  am  called  upon 
to  show  these  pictures  to  every  stranger  who  wants  to  see  them, 
on  the  ground  that  he  belotrgs  to  the  Barley  family.  There  is 
a  good  deal  of  curiosity  just  now  about  this  family.  A  great 
many  people  would  like  to  be  connected  with  them." 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  my  connection,  at  all  events.  But 
if  you  cannot  let  me  see  them,  I  am  sorry  I  disturbed  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  let  me  know  the  nature  of  your  rela- 
tionship." 

"  I  am  a  grandncphew  of  the  deceased  John  Calvert  Burley. 
My  grandfather  was  his  brother,  and  the  second  son  of  the  so- 
called  Westminster  miser." 

"The  second  son.  You  are,  then,  the  nearest  in  succession 
after  the  direct  line." 

"  I  am  tlie  nearest." 

"You  forget  the  missing  son  and  his  possible  heir." 

"  They  must  be  dead.  Otherwise  they  would  have  turned 
up  long  ago.  From  your  name,  Dr.  Calvert,  may  one  gatJier 
that  you  are  connected  in  some  way  with  us?  Are  you,  too,  a 
claimant,  perhaps  ?" 

"Not  a  claimant  —  so  far.  AVell,  sir,  if  you  can  establish 
your  connection  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Treasury  solicitors,  and 
if  the  missing  son  does  not  turn  up — nor  any  of  liis  heirs — you 
will  become,  when  they  have  made  up  their  minds  tliat  the  son 
is  dead — say,  in  ten  years  or  so — a  very  rich  man  indeed,  per- 
haps the  richest  man  in  the  country.  I  am  told  that  the  prop- 
erty, originally  estimated  attwelv'e  millions  or  so,  lias  been  found 
to  be  actually  worth  a  million  or  so  more." 

"Very  possibly,"  Clarence  replied,  carelessly.  "When  one 
gets  into  figures  such  as  tlicse,  what  matters  an  additional  mill- 
ion or  so  ?" 

"What,  indeed  ?  Well,  Mr.  Burghley,  since  you  arc  so  near 
the  direct  line,  I  shall  not  object  to  show  you  the  portraits  of 
some  of  your  ancestors." 


A  physician's  advice  231 

Clarence  looked  about  the  room.  It  now  presented  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  student's  room  ;  the  table  littered  with  books  and 
papers ;  the  bookcase  filled  with  books. 

"  It  was  in  this  house,"  he  said,  "  that  the  old  man  lived." 

"  He  was  born  here,  he  lived  here,  and  he  died  here.  Your 
grandfather  was  born  here,  was  brought  up  here,  and  ran  away 
from  here." 

"  Oh  !     Yes — and  this  would  be  his  breakfast-room  ?" 

"It  was  the  old  man's  living-room  ;  for  forty  years  he  never 
used  any  room  in  the  house  except  this  and  his  bedroom." 

*'  And  the  portraits  ?  May  I  ask  how  you  obtained  the  por- 
traits r' 

"  We  took  the  house  as  it  was,  buying  the  furniture  at  a 
valuation,  after  the  Treasury  people  had  taken  away  the  papers." 

"  Were  there  any — any — personal  relics — or  remains — of  the 
old  man  ?" 

"  I  believe  there  was  a  pipe  which  he  used  to  smoke.  But 
that  has  disappeared." 

"  1  meant,  rather,  things  that  would  show  us  what  the  old  man 
■was  like — note-books,  account-books,  letters,  diaries  in  his  hand- 
writing— you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  You  should  ask  the  Treasury  to  show  you  these  things.  But 
I  doubt  if  they  will  meet  your  views,"  Lucian  replied,  dryly. 
What  did  this  man  want  with  personal  remains  and  relics  in  the 
handwriting  of  the  deceased  ?  "  If  you  want  to  see  the  portraits, 
however,  you  can  come  with  me." 

Clarence  followed  him  into  the  drawing-room.  He  saw  all  the 
portraits  hanging  on  the  wall,  but  he  regarded  them  carelessly. 
He  was  thinking,  in  fact,  of  that  scrap  of  writing. 

"  There  are  your  ancestors,"  said  Lucian. 

"  Humph  !  They  are  all  exactly  alike — till  you  come  to  look 
closer — wonderfully  alike  they  all  arc  !" 

"Can  you  spot  your  grandfather?" 

Clarence  walked  round  the  room  slowly.  Presently  he  stopped 
before  the  picture  representing  a  dark  Spanish-looking  young 
man  of  eighteen  or  so. 

"  This  is  my  grandfather,"  he  said.  "  When  I  first  remember 
him  he  Avas  an  old  man  with  white  hair.  I  should  not  have 
known  him  here,  but  we  have  a  sketch  of  him  in  character  as 


232  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Morcntio,  -whicli  is  exactly  like  tliis  picture.  The  eyes  arc  the 
same,  and  the  face.  Oh,  there  cannot  be  the  least  doubt !  I 
will  swear  to  my  grandfather," 

"  The  fact  should  lielp  your  case,  Mr.  Burgliley,  because  it  is 
the  portrait  of  the  second  son,  Henry.  You  arc  welcome  to  have 
this  portrait  copied  if  you  like,  or  used  in  any  other  way.  That 
is  to  say,  unless  your  case  is  already  complete." 

"  Complete  ?"  Clarence  replied,  with  courage.  "  In  every  de- 
tail.    In  every  link." 

"  Well.  Then  this  resemblance  illustrates  your  case.  There 
is  another  point,  Mr.  Burghlcy,  You  are,  yourself,  unmistak- 
ably like  your  grandfather.  You  are  thinner  in  the  face,  and 
you  have  not  so  much  color.  Otherwise  you  are  exactly  like 
him." 

"  I  wonder  if  such  a  resemblance  would  be  taken  as  evi- 
dence?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  would,  except  that  it  shows  you  to  belong 
somehow  to  the  family.  But  you  are  like  other  members  of  the 
family — especially  you  are  like  this  ancestor."  He  pointed  to 
the  unfortunate  prodigal. 

"  A  good-looking  fellow,"  said  Clarence,  examining  the  pict- 
ure. "  A  dare-devil,  rakish  sort ;  would  probably  be  called  a  Mo- 
bock  in  his  day.    Do  you  think  I  am  like  him  ?    Who  was  he  ?" 

"  This  man,  unfortunately,  came  to  the  worst  kind  of  grief ; 
did  a  little  highway  robbery,  and  was  hanged  for  it." 

"  Ilanged  ?  Really  !  My  ancestor  was  hanged  !"  Clarence 
laughed.  "  This  is  an  unexpected  honor.  Well,  it  was  a 
long  time  ago ;  and  people  have  forgotten  it,  I  suppose.  Oh  ! 
You  think  I  am  like  him." 

"  Very  much  indeed.  I  mention  it  as  another  illustration  of 
your  case." 

"  The  best  thing  I  could  do  to  prove  my  case  might  be  to  get 
hanged  as  well.  Then  there  would  be  no  doubt.  I  wonder  if 
they  would  accept  this  likeness  as  well  as  the  other  as  evi- 
dence ?" 

"  Perhaps;  but  your  claim,  you  say,  is  complete  at  every  point 
already." 

"  Quite  complete.  The  only  thing  is,  how  long  sliall  I  have  to 
wait?" 


A    PHYSICIAN  S    ADVICE  233 

"  This  man — the  one  who  was  hanged — was  heir  to  a  very 
large  estate.  His  father  was  a  very  rich  man — as  wealth  was 
then  reckoned.     But  he  could  not  wait,  unfortunately  for  him." 

"  My  case  is  so  strong  that  I  could,  if  I  chose,  raise  any 
amount  of  money  upon  it,"  Clarence  replied,  with  the  appear- 
ance of  confidence.  "  So  you  see.  Dr.  Calvert,  there  is  no  im- 
mediate necessity  for  me  to  be  hanged." 

Lucian  laughed.  The  resemblance  of  this  new  cousin  to  the 
unlucky  profligate  was  really  wonderful.  *'  I  think  I  can  tell 
you,"  he  said,  "  most  of  your  family  history.  Your  grandfather, 
the  second  son,  ran  away,  and,  after  adventures  unknown,  ob- 
tained a  footing  in  some  country  company.  His  father  never 
forgave  any  of  his  sons  for  running  away,  and  in  the  end  left 
the  whole  of  his  money  to  his  eldest  son.  Your  grandfather 
changed  his  name,  and  never  held  any  communication  whatever 
with  his  brother  or  with  any  other  members  of  his  family.  Kvon 
when  he  came  to  London  theatres  he  never  made  any  attempt  at 
reconciliation." 

"I  know  all  this.     But  how  do  you  know  it?" 

"  Circumstances  have  placed  me  in  possession  of  a  good  deal 
of  the  family  history." 

"  Dr.  Calvert,  I  spoke  just  now  of  personal  relics  and  remains. 
If  you  have  any  autograph  letter  of  the  late  John  Burley,  I 
should  greatly  prize  it,  should  you  wish  to  part  with  it.  Of 
course  I  don't  know  what  you  have.  But  there  must  have  been 
something.  The  Treasury  might  not  want  papers  of  no  inter- 
est— an  autograph  letter — anything — in  the  handwriting  of  a 
man  so  enormously  wealthy,  and  my  great -uncle.  You  can 
easily  understand  that  I  should  greatly  value  anything  of  liis — 
any  little  relic.  It  is  a  thing  of  sentiment,  of  course — but  you 
will  understand." 

He  spoke  fast ;  his  eyes  became  shifty  ;  there  was  a  false  ring 
in  his  voice.  He  conveyed  the  impression — or  the  suspicion — 
that  he  did  not  really  care  twopence  about  his  great-uncle  ;  but 
that  he  wanted,  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  a  specimen  of  his 
handwriting.  Lucian — perhaps  in  consequence  of  these  suspi- 
cions— thus  knowledge  confers  power — power  to  lead  on  to  dis- 
appointment— resolved  to  give  him  what  he  wanted. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  I  understand  you.     Perhaps  I  do  not. 


234  DEVOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Well,  I  have  certain  papers  and  letters  belonging  to  the  late  Mr. 
Barley — they  were  left  in  the  house  when  the  important  papers 
were  removed — because  they  were  worthless.  Among  them  is 
one  at  least  which  concerns  your  grandfather.  You  said  that 
your  case  was  complete.  If  it  were  not,  this  letter  might  assist 
you." 

"  My  case  is  complete,  of  course ;  but  yet — every  case  will 
bear  strengthening.     If  you  would  let  me  see  this  letter." 

"It  is  a  letter  which  is  written  by  the  young  man  after  he 
ran  away — to  his  mother — speaking  of  the  comj)any  whicli  lie 
had  joined  and  of  his  change  of  name." 

"  Oh  !"  Clarence  started  into  a  natural  eagerness.  *'  It  is  the 
very  thing  I  wanted.  If  you  would  let  me  see — copy — photo- 
graph— this  letter." 

"  I  will  get  it  for  you."  He  went  in  search  of  it.  You  liave 
seen  the  letter  already.  It  was  one  of  those  found  by  Margaret. 
"  Here  it  is.  You  can  make  any  use  of  it  that  you  please. 
Your  lawyers  may  copy  it.  I  will  lend  it,  or — it  is  useless  to 
me — I  will  give  it  to  you." 

Clarence  read  it  with  a  joy  almost  too  great  to  bear.  It  was 
the  one  thing  wanted  to  make  his  claim  complete,  lie  sat 
down,  a  little  overcome.  The  Joyous  Life  was  within  his  grasp 
at  last  —  no  doubt  now.  The  connection  was  established. 
Then  a  most  curious  thing.  For  the  physician,  forgetting  him- 
self, began  to  warn  this  stranger  seriously  and  solemnly  against 
the  very  things  he  was  himself  daily,  and  all  day  long  and  all 
night  long,  practising,  and  this  is  what  he  said  : 

"  Mr.  Clarence  Burghley  " — Clarence  heard  Lucian's  voice  as 
in  a  dream — "  I  perceive  by  your  manner  and  your  behavior," 
the  physician  spoke  with  authority,  "  that  you  are  greatly — 
dangerously  excited  by  your  anxiety  about  this  claim  of  yours. 
This  kind  of  anxiety  is  absorbing."  Could  he  be  speaking  from 
personal  experience  ?  "  It  sometimes  fills  the  mind  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  any  form  of  work.  I  don't  know  what  you  do  or 
hov/  you  live ;  but  I  can  see  in  your  eyes  that  you  live  in  a 
perpetual  fever  of  anxious  thought;  you  build  up  schemes  of 
what  you  will  do  when  you  come  into  your  fortune ;  and  your 
castles  of  Spain  are  always  destroyed  as  fast  as  they  are  built 
by  your  terror  that  your  case  is  not  sufliciently  strong.     If  I 


A    PHYSICIAN  S    ADVICE  235 

•were  to  take  your  temperature  at  this  moment,  I  should  cer- 
tainly find  it  much  too  high.  I  perceive,  further,  other  symp- 
tpms — the  trembling  of  your  hands,  the  nervous  twitching  of 
your  face,  the  black  rings  round  your  eyes  ;  that  you  have  no 
appetite,  but  that  you  can  drink,  and  that  you  pass  sleepless 
and  restless  nights.     Is  all  this  true?" 

"  You  arc  a  physician.     I  suppose  you  can  read  symptoms." 

''  Sometimes  we  can  read  symptoms — when  they  leap  to  the 
eyes.  Now,  sir,  I  have  a  little  prophecy  and  a  little  advice. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  ofEer  both  for  your  consideration  ?" 

"  Since  you  are  so  good  as  to  give  me  this  letter,  I  will  listen 
gratefully  to  both." 

"  My  advice  is  to  send  in  your  claim,  and  then  to  think  no 
more  about  it — no  more  at  all  about  it.  To  go  on  with  your 
daily  business  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  claim  or  a  fort- 
une." 

"  Dr.  Calvert,"  Clarence  repeated,  "  I  am  indebted  to  you  for 
the  use  of  this  letter  and  for  a  sight  of  the  portraits,  but  I 
cannot  promise  to  follow  your  advice  in  return." 

"That  is  my  advice.  My  prophecy  is  this:  If  you  neglect 
it  and  any  other  warnings ;  if  you  go  on  letting  your  mind 
dwell  on  what  may  happen  when  you  come  into  your  inheri- 
tance, hope  deferred  will  make  your  heart  sick  unto  death  or — 
worse — unto  madness.  The  simple  delays  of  the  law  may  bring 
this  trouble  upon  you.  Unless  the  missing  son  turns  up  or  is 
proved  to  be  dead,  they  will  wait  for  ten  years  at  least.  What 
will  you  do  during  the  long  years  of  expectancy  and  anxiety  ? 
Win  you  follow  your  ordmary  work  ?  With  what  heart,  when 
this  chance  awaits  you  ?  You  have  seen  a  letter  which,  I  am 
sure,  greatly  strengthens  your  case.  Yet  do  not  build  too  inuch 
upon  it.  And  I  tell  you  plainly,  Mr.  Burghley,  that  you  will 
never  succeed  in  your  claim." 

"  Why  not  ?     Who  is  before  me  ?" 

"  Accident — chance — the  unexpected — are  before  you.  There 
is,  I  believe,  a  superstition  about  this  fortune.  It  is  said  that 
it  brings  disaster  upon  all  who  are  concerned  with  it.  We 
need  not  believe  foolish  superstitions,  but  it  may  very  well  be 
that  the  contemplation  of  or  the  longing  after  vast  wealth  may 
unhinge  a  man's  mind.     Be  careful,  Mr.  Burghley.     Too  much 


236  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

thinking  of  millions  cannot  be  wholesome."  Strange  !  This 
man,  so  wise  for  others,  was  at  that  very  moment  passing 
through  the  same  experience  himself.  "Take  care,  I  say,  Mr. 
Burghley.     Take  care." 

He  opened  the  door.  Clarence  walked  down  the  stairs  and 
out  of  the  house  without  replying.  The  warnings  affected  him 
but  little.  He  had  strengthened  his  case  with  the  portrait  and 
the  letter.  His  claim  was  now  completely  made  out.  He  went 
home  with  dancing  steps ;  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and 
dreamed  away  the  afternoon  in  visions  of  the  Joyous  Life  when 
those  millions  should  be  his.  And  when  his  partner  came  home 
Clarence  welcomed  him  with  a  shout  and  a  laugh,  brandishino- 
the  letter  that  established  his  parentage  beyond  the  possibility 
of  doubt. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
THE    MIRACLE 

"  I  CAME  here  ycsterda}',  Margaret,"  said  Ella,  "and  I  am  here 
to-day.  I  can't  keep  away  from  you,  because  you  are  the  only 
person  that  I  know  in  this  country  ;  we  used  to  laugh  and  call 
it  Little  England.  But  it's  Great  England,  Broad  Britain,  Big 
England,  Thirsty,  Sandy,  Desert  England,  when  you're  all  alone 
in  it — with  no — "     She  checked  herself. 

"  Well,  dear,  you  are  always  welcome." 

"  1  can't  sit  still,  or  rest,  or  settle  to  work,  or  anythino-,  I'm 
so  miserable.     I  feel  like  jumping  off  Westminster  Bridge." 

"  Sit  still  here,  then,  and  rest." 

"  No ;  I  must  walk  about  or  I  shall  go  mad."  TIic  girl's 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were  too  bright,  her  liands  Avere 
hot.  "  Come  out  and  walk  witli  me.  I  want  to  feel  the  cool 
air." 

Margaret  led  her  into  the  large  quiet  square  called  Dean's  Yard. 
"  This  is  where  I  sometimes  walk,"  she  said,  "  when  I  wish  to 
be  quiet.  But  tliere  are  places  here  quieter  than  tliis.  I  will 
take  you  to  the  most  hushed,  still,  and  peaceful  spot  in  the 
whole  of  London." 

Under  an  archway,  across  an  open  court,  through  a  broad 
arched  corridor,  she  led  the  girl  into  a  little  square  court,  sur- 
rounded by  a  stone  cloister ;  in  the  midst  was  a  square  of  grass, 
with  a  fountain  whicli  ought  to  have  been  playing  but  was  not; 
tablets  on  the  walls  commemorated  dead  men's  names  and  lives. 
These  tablets  were  all  that  remained  of  their  memory.  There 
were  ancient  doors  and  ancient  windows  of  ancient,  crumbling, 
worn  stone,  and  above  the  corridor  were  houses  which  looked  as 
if  they  were  built  at  the  time  great  Oliver  ruled  the  realm. 

♦'  This  is  the  old  Infirmary  Cloister,"  said  Margaret.     "  It  is 


338  BEYOND  THE  UREAMS  OJ)"  AVARICE 

the  quietest  place  in  the  world.  You  hear  nothinff  in  these 
cloisters  of  the  outside  world — nothing  hut  the  striking  of  the 
great  clock ;  you  see  nothing  but  the  Victoria  Tower.  There  is 
never  any  foot-fall  here  ;  the  people  who  occupy  the  houses  are 
in  a  conspiracy  of  silence.  I  come  here  often  when  I  am 
troubled.  Ella,  dear,  you  are  not  the  only  woman  in  trouble  ; 
we  arc  all  troubled  in  these  days.  But  the  trouble  will  pass — 
oh  !  I  think — I  feel — tliat  for  all  of  us  it  will  pass."  llcr  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  "Only  to  linger  among  the  gray  old  stones 
soothes  and  comforts  one." 

The  stones  did  not  at  first  bring  comfort  to  Ella — perhaps 
because  she  was  too  full  of  her  trouble  to  notice  them.  She 
threw  up  her  arms.  She  g-aspcd.  "  Margaret !"  she  cried,  "  I 
am  going  mad.  I  am  gone  mad,  I  think,  with  the  disap- 
pointment and  the  misery  of  it.  Don't  speak.  Let  me  tell  you 
first.  I  don't  dare  to  tell  Auntie.  But  she  knows,  poor  thing. 
Ever  since  I  began  to  think  about  tlie  inheritance  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else — morning,  noon,  and  night  I  have  im- 
agined and  dreamed  and  built  up  castles  about  this  dreadful 
money  and  myself.  My  very  dreams  are  yellow  with  gold.  I 
pictured  myself  the  very  greatest  woman  in  all  America — 
greater  than  tbe  Vanderbilts,  greater  than. the  Astors  —  my 
name  on  everybody's  lips,  in  every  paper.  Oh !  the  dreadful 
vainglory  of  it!  And  I  was  to  be — oh!  yes,  nothing  but  that, 
if  you  please — yes,  the  best,  the  most  generous,  the  most  char- 
itable of  women  !  Oh  !  of  course.  The  pride  and  vanity  and 
self-seeking  of  it!  That  has  been  my  dream,  day  and  night — 
day  and  night.  And  now  it  is  quite  certain  that  it  can  never  be 
anything  but  a  dream." 

"  What  has  happened,  dear  ?" 

"  Everything,  I  believe.  You  know  that  Auntie  was  always 
against  it  from  the  beginning.  She's  a  prophetess,  for  sure 
and  certain.  She  was  for  sending  in  her  name  and  mine,  and 
nothing  more.  But  nothing  would  do  for  me  but  to  come 
over  here  and  claim  the  estate.  I  was  so  ignorant  that  I 
thouglit  we  only  liad  to  send  in  our  names  for  the  whole  of 
the  money  to  be  handed  over  to  us  across  a  bank  counter — 
sixty  million  dollars!  I  tliought  that  we  should  be  able  to  go 
liomc  in  a  fortnight  or  so  with  a  whole  ship-load  of  dollars — 


THE    MIRACLE  239 

millions  and  millions  and  millions  of  dollars — all  in  bags  — 
and  leave  the  Queen  and  the  whole  of  the  royal  family  in 
tears."     She  laughed  through  her  own  tears. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  They  say  that  the  Treasury  must  have  proofs  that  the 
missing  son  is  dead  —  or  that  he  has  left  no  heirs.  Why,  the 
world  has  been  ringing  with  his  name.  If  he  was  in  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth  he  must  have  heard  that  cry.  AVithout 
proof,  they  say,  they  will  probably  wait  for  years.  They  tell 
me  that  when  your  General,  Hicks  Pasha,  was  killed  in  Egypt, 
they  waited  ten  years  for  proof,  because  his  body  was  never  re- 
covered, and  not  a  soul  returned  from  the  battle  to  say  that  he 
had  fallen.  Ten  years !  When  I  heard  that,  my  heart  Avas  as 
heavy  as  lead,  for  I  saw  that  we  might  just  as  well  go  home  again." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  so." 

"  But  that  isn't  all.  Oh  !  I  must  go  mad  over  it.  I  thought 
our  claim  was  so  clear  and  simple.  Grandfather  was  Mr. 
Barley's  brother.  There's  no  doubt  of  that — and  they  say 
now  that  I  must  produce  the  proofs  of  his  marriage.  As  if 
there  could  be  any  doubt  of  it !  Why,  I  remember  both  of 
them.     Proofs  ?     It's  an  insult  to  speak  of  such  a  thing." 

"But  indeed,  Ella,  there  are  wicked  people  in  the  world. 
I  fear  they  will  insist  upon  the  production  of  the  proofs." 

"  I  say  it's  an  insult  to  suspect.     Oh  !  it's  impossible !" 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  but  lawyers  always  want  proofs  of  everything. 
It  is  not  meant  as  an  insult.  And  remember,  we  all  —  we  all 
suffer  from  the — the  follies  of  men — their  follies  and  their 
wickedness.  Lawyers  will  not  take  it  for  granted  that  there 
ever  is  a  completely  good  man  upon  this  earth." 

*'  lie  wasn't  married  at  Tewksbury.  Grandmother  —  I  recol- 
lect the  dear  old  thing,  lovely  white  hair  she  had  —  was  an 
Englishwoman.  She  used  to  talk  about  her  own  people.  They 
lived  in  a  place  called  Bloomsbury,  and  they  were  lawyers. 
Her  first  husband  was  a  lawyer,  but  a  great  deal  older  than  her- 
self, and  he  died,  and  then  she  came  out  to  America  witli 
grandfather.  I  was  only  a  little  girl,  and  I  never  asked  her 
name,  else  I  might  find  out  her  people.  And  how  in  the  name 
of  wonder  are  we  to  find  where  a  man  was  married  ijixty 
years  ago  and  more  ?" 


240  UKYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"It  is  not  so  difficult.  There  were  only  so  many  churclics  in 
London  sixty  years  ago — perhaps  not  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty.  The  registers  are  preserved.  An  advertisement  would 
procure  you  the  proof — if  it  exists." 

"  An  advertisement !"  Ella  laughed  scornfully,  "  How  arc  we 
to  pay  for  the  advertisement  ?" 

Margaret  took  her  liand. 

"I  have  seen  that  coming,  too,  Ella.  We  arc  cousins,  you 
know.  Only  I  was  afraid  to  speak.  You  are  so  independent 
and  so  proud." 

"  My  pride  is  gone,  then.  Pride  can't  outlast  want.  And 
there's  nothing  left— nothing— nothing."  She  buried  lier  head 
in  her  hands  and  burst  into  sobs  that  echoed  strangely  round  the 
quiet  cloister. 

"  My  dear  "—Margaret  soothed  her—"  my  dear,  tell  me  all." 

"  We  first  spent  the  money  we  brought  over  with  us,  think- 
ing it  would  be  enough,  and  that  avc  should  only  want  it  for  a 
week  or  two.  It  is  all  gone — all  but  the  rent,  tliat  must  be  paid 
to-morrow,  and  then  there  will  be  nothing  left — nothing  at  all. 
Margaret,  we  are  nearly  starved.  You  would  not  behevc  on  how 
little  we  have  lived  for  the  last  three  weeks." 

"  My  dear,  patience  for  a  few  moments  ;  only  while  you  tell 
me." 

"  AVc  have  spent  everything.  W^e  have  pawned  our  watches 
— our  dresses — everything  that  wc  could  part  with.  We  have 
nothing  but  what  wc  stand  in.  And  more  trouble.  Auntie  had 
a  little  money  —  not  much.  It  brought  her  $200  a  year.  I 
had  none,  because  father  wasn't  lucky.  Auntie's  money  was 
put  with  a  trustee,  and  he  has  just  run  away,  bankrupt,  and  we 
hoar  that  he  has  lost  or  stolen  it  all.  Then  we  had  our  house 
— only  a  little  yellow  cottage  with  a  slip  of  garden  —  but  it 
was  our  own.  Wc  mortgaged  it  to  get  the  money  for  coming 
over.  And  now  wc  are  told  that  the  mortgage  is  the  full  value. 
Oh  !  it's  roguery,  it's  treachery  and  roguery.  So  we're  quite 
ruined,  Margaret,  and  to-morrow  wc  go  out  into  the  streets  and 
w — w — walk  about  till  we  d — d — d — d — die." 

"  My  dear  child,  this  is  most  dreadful.  Why  did  you 
not  tell  me  of  all  this  before  ?  1  only  knew  that  you  were 
pinched." 


THE    MIRACLE  241 

"  Oh  !  you  are  a  stranger  ;  you  arc  an  Englishwoman.  They 
used  to  teach  us  that  Englishwomen  were  cold  and  proud.  How 
could  I  ?" 

"  Well,  you  have  told  me  now,  and  so — we  are  your  cousins, 
you  know — something  must  be  done  at  once,  and — and — "  She 
stopped  short,  for  the  trouble  in  the  girl's  face  was  terrible. 

"  I  left  Auntie  praying."  She  burst  into  hysterical  laughter. 
"She  is  always  praying.  Slic  gets  up  in  the  night  and  prays. 
She  asks  a  miracle.  Poor  thing !  As  if  miracles  come  for  the 
asking.  There  are  none  left.  In  these  days,  without  money  or 
work,  we  starve.  If  I  talk  about  searching  the  registers,  she 
shakes  and  trembles  and  begs  mc  to  give  it  up  and  go  home 
again.  To-day  finishes  everything.  This  evening  we  shall  eat 
up  the  last  scrap  of  bread  and  drink  the  last  cup  of  tea.  To- 
morrow we  shall  go  out  into  the  streets.  And  Auntie  says  we 
ought  to  go  home  !  Is  it  better  to  starve  in  the  streets  of  London 
amono-  stranircrs  or  in  the  streets  of  Tewksbury  among  friends  ?" 

"  My  dear,  you  shall  not  starve.  It  is  all  arranged.  Only  I 
did  not  know  that  the  necessity  was  so  close  at  hand." 

She  took  Ella's  hand.  Without  thinking  whither  they  were 
going,  Margaret  led  the  way  into  the  great  cloister  and  through 
the  little  postern  into  the  Abbey  itself. 

Afternoon  service  was  just  beginning.  They  took  a  seat  in  a 
retired  corner,  and  then,  while  the  silver  voices  rose  and  fell  and 
rang  and  echoed  from  pillar  to  pillar  and  along  the  lofty  roof, 
and  the  organ  rolled,  and  the  voice  of  the  reader  was  like  a  sin- 
gle flute  seeking  to  be  heard  through  all  this  great  building,  the 
American  girl  wept  and  sobbed  without  restraint.  It  was  a  time 
for  the  opening  of  the  floodgates. 

When  the  service  was  over,  Ella  dried  her  tears.  "  Oh  !"  she 
said,  "  this  place  is  full  of  consolation.  I  am  better  now.  It's 
a  lovely  place.  If  I  were  to  get  that  great  fortune,  I  would  buy 
it  and  take  it  over  to  Tewksbury,  choristers  and  all.  Thank 
you  for  bringing  me.  I  almost  believe  that  Aunt  Lucinda  will 
get  her  miracle,  and  I  will  not  go  mad." 

"  Well,  then,  dear,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  go  mad  till  I  re- 
turn, ril  take  you  home  and  leave  you  there  while  I  go  to  fetch 
your  aunt.  And  then  we  will  have  tea  and  talk — and  you  must 
be  prepared  for  dcvcloi)mcuts." 


243  BEYOND     THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

Aunt  Lucinda  was  indeed  in  a  pitiable  condition.  Half- 
starved,  penniless,  with  the  prospect  before  her  of  destitution, 
in  dire  terror  lest  a  certain  family  secret  should  be  discovered, 
she  sat  beside  the  black  fireplace  on  that  cold,  autumnal  after- 
noon with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  that  were  blind  with  help- 
less tears. 

"  Aunt  Lucinda,"  said  Margaret,  bursting  in,  "  I  have  come 
to  carry  you  away." 

"  Carry  me  away  ?" 

"  You  are  to  come  and  stay  with  us,  you  and  Ella.  My  hus- 
band is  your  cousin,  you  know.  We  invite  you — Ella  and  you 
— to  make  our  house  your  home  for  a  while;  till  we  have  looked 
round  and  found  some  way  out  of  the  trouble.  Oh  !  I  know  all 
about  it;  you  need  not  tell  me  anything.  Now  let  me  pack  up 
your  things  for  you.  Where  are  your  boxes?  I  will  do  it  all 
for  you."  She  bustled  about  into  the  other  room  and  back; 
she  crammed  the  "  things  " — they  were  few  indeed — into  the 
two  boxes ;  she  talked  cheerfully  all  the  time ;  she  gave  the 
poor  lady  no  time  for  thought  or  for  protest.  When  all  was 
done — it  took  ten  minutes  or  so ;  no  more — she  brought  out 
Aunt  Lucinda's  hat  and  jacket  and  rang  the  bell  for  a  cab. 

Then  Aunt  Lucinda's  face  began  to  twitch  ominously. 

"  Come,  the  cab  will  be  down  below,"  said  Margaret.  "  Let 
me  help  you  with  the  things." 

"  Stay  with  you  ?"  asked  Aunt  Lucinda.  "  We  are  strangers 
in  a  strange  land,  and  you  take  us  in  !  Oh  !  Ella  said  I  prayed 
for  a  miracle ;  and  there  are  no  more  miracles,  she  said — and  lo ! 
it  is  a  miracle.  Oh  !  The  Lord  fulfils  the  desire  of  them  that 
fear  Him.     He  hears  their  cry  and  saves  them." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  with  bowed  head  and  clasped  hands. 
Then  she  meekly  followed  this  woman  of  Samaria. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"  CONFESS    YE    YOUR    SINS  " 

When  two  troubles  assail  the  soul  it  is  not  together  —  trou= 
bles  very  rarely  fight  in  company — but  separately.  The  stronger 
and  the  fiercer  trouble  overpowers  the  soul,  enters,  and  takes 
possession.  Tlien  the  lesser  trouble  goes  away.  He  does  not 
go  far ;  he  lurks  in  ambush  till  the  present  occupier  withdraws. 
Then  he  sees  his  chance,  and  rushes  once  more  to  assault  the 
citadel  of  man's  soul.  One  might  write  a  new  allegory  showing 
that  fortress  continually  besieged  by  one  trouble  after  the  oth- 
er— never  at  rest,  never  at  peace.  The  biggest  trouble  of  all, 
as  the  world  has  always  been  ready  to  confess,  is  the  want  of 
money.  Not  the  want  of  plentiful  money,  but  the  want  of 
needful  money.  As  has  happened  to  many,  one  sees  the  ap- 
proach of  the  hour  when  there  will  be  no  more,  not  a  penny 
more  ;  no  more  food,  no  more  lodging,  no  more  resources,  no 
friends,  no  work  ;  then,  indeed,  this  is  a  trouble  so  stupen- 
dous that  the  soul  surrenders  at  once,  and  there  is  no  room 
for  any  other  trouble,  hardly  even  for  the  pains  of  gout. 

When  this  trouble  was  driven  away  for  a  time.  Aunt  Lucin- 
da's  soul  was  left  open  to  the  other  and  the  lesser  trouble — 
that,  namely,  connected  with  the  claitn,  to  which  Ella  now  re- 
turned, but  with  somewhat  mitigated  persistency. 

"  As  soon  as  we  have  found  out  how  to  make  a  little  money, 
Auntie,  we  will  advertise  for  your  grandfather's  certificate  of 
marriage.  I  have  thought  it  all  out.  Father  was  born  in  1827 
— they  arrived  in  Tcwksbury  in  182G  —  therefore  they  must 
have  been  married  before  they  left  London.  Therefore  the 
register  will  be  easily  found,  and  then  our  claim  will  rest  on 
sure  foundations  !" 

"  Oh,  my  dear !"  cried  x\unt  Lucinda,  eagerly,  "  let  us  think 


244  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

no  more  about  the  claim.  This  fortune  brings  disaster  upon 
everybody — even  upon  those  who  think  about  it  and  hope  to  get 
it,  as  well  as  those  who  have  it.  Margaret  has  shown  and 
proved  it  to  me.  Tliink  what  misfortunes  it  has  brought  upon 
us!  Do  not  let  us  think  of  it  any  more.  There  will  be  fresh 
sorrow  if  we  do." 

"  I  don't  desire  it  any  more,  Auntie,  for  the  vainglory  of  it. 
I  don't  want  to  be  the  richest  woman  in  the  world.  But  I 
should  like — I  should  like — well — not  to  feel  that  we  have 
come  on  a  wild-goose  chase.  I  should  like  our  friends  in 
Tewksbury  to  hear  that  we  were  really  what  we  believed  our- 
selves to  be  ;  and  as  soon  as  we  have  any  money  I  will  adver- 
tise." 

This  was  the  trouble  that  now  vexed  the  poor  lady's  soul. 
To  be  sure,  she  knew  that  there  could  be  no  certificate  in  any 
church.  But  it  is  ill  work  to  stir  muddy  waters.  Things  done 
may  be  remembered — may  be  handed  down.  The  wife  who 
left  her  husband  in  1825,  or  thereabouts,  and  went  off  with 
young  James  Burley,  had  belongings,  and  the  husband  had  be- 
longings. The  memory  of  the  thing  might  survive.  There- 
fore Aunt  Lucinda  trembled.  She  sat  in  terror  all  day  long. 
She  showed  terror  in  her  face — in  her  eyes — in  her  attitude. 

"  Ask  her,"  said  Lucian,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  her.  She 
is  torn  by  some  secret  anxiety.  She  looks  as  if  it  might  drive 
her  mad.  Ask  her,  Marjorie.  I  suppose  you  can't  hint  that 
an  Egyptian  mummy  at  the  feast  would  be  quite  as  cheerful  as 
a  face  in  affright.  It  will  be  a  kindness  to  me  if  you  bring  her 
to  a  more  resigned  frame.  There  ought  not  to  be  spectres  at 
the  dinner-table." 

Margaret  obeyed. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  my  dear,"  the  poor  lady  replied — "  I  can't 
tell  any  one.  It  is  a  thing  that  I  know  and  nobody  else  knows. 
And  I  live  in  terror  day  and  night  for  fear  of  her  finding  it  out." 

"  If  nobody  knows  it  but  you — " 

"Oh!  But  long  ago,  when  it  happcncrl,  many  people  knew. 
And  some  may  remember,  or  they  may  have  been  told.  Oh, 
if  she  were  to  find  out!" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  secret  which  affects — the — honor  of  some 
one  whom  you  both  know." 


"CONFESS    YE    YOUR    SINS "  245 

The  poor  lady  nodded  her  head  violently. 

"  My  dear  Aunt  Lucinda,  give  your  anxious  mind  a  rest.  A 
thing  so  old  must  surely  be  forgotten  long  since.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  hold  your  tongue.  Come,  if  we  all  think 
what  might  happen,  where  would  be  the  cheerfulness  of  the 
world  ?" 

"  If  she  would  only  give  up  this  dreadful  claim  I  should  be 
happy.  But  she  won't.  And  she  is  walking  right  straight 
into  the  place  where  she  will  find  the  horrible,  hateful,  shame- 
ful secret." 

"  She  can  do  no  more  than  she  can  do.  Everything  is  clear- 
ly proved  except  her  grandfather's  marriage."  Aunt  Lucinda 
clasped  her  hands  and  rocked  to  and  fro,  and  her  face  turned 
red  and  white.  Margaret  pretended  not  to  observe  these  signs. 
*'  The  place  and  date  of  that  marriage  she  has  yet  to  ascertain. 
Perhaps  she  never  will.  Then  she  will  never  be  able  to  estab- 
lish her  claim.  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  which  should  console 
you.  Ella  will  never,  under  any  circumstances,  get  any  portion 
of  this  estate." 

"Oh,  thank  God T  She  lifted  her  clasped  hands.  "There 
has  been  nothing  but  terror  and  misery  since  we  thought  of  it." 

"Ruin  and  Destruction  !"  said  Margaret,  the  superstitious. 
"Ruin  and  destruction  for  all  who  make  or  meddle  with  this 
horrible  estate." 

"  Will  she  give  up  looking  for  that  certificate  of  marriage  ?" 

"  I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  before  many  days  she  will 
definitely  abandon  all  hope  of  the  inheritance."  This  she  said, 
thinking  that  Lucian  would  establish  his  own  right,  at  least, 
whatever  else  he  might  do.  "  Tell  me,  Aunt  Lucinda,  do  you 
want  to  be  enormously  rich  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  did.  I  was  quite  happy  at  home  when  we  were 
poor.  We  are  nearly  all  of  us  women  at  Tewksbury,  and  we've 
got  everything  that  the  heart  can  desire — books,  and  a  beauti- 
ful literary  society,  and  courses  of  lectures,  and  churches,  and 
meetings  of  every  kind ;  nearly  all  of  us  are  poor,  and  nobody 
minds.  We  aim  at  the  Cultivated  Life,  my  dear,  and  the 
Spiritual  Life,  and,  oh!  if  you  could  hear  Ella  read  her  papers 
on  Browning !  I've  got  some  here — would  you  like  to  road 
one?" 


246  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  Very  much,"  Margaret  replied,  politely,  but  witli  little 
warratb,  not  feeling  greatly  tempted  by  the  writing  of  an  Ameri- 
can girl  who,  she  could  not  forget,  was  only — even  English 
people  say — only  a  clerk  or  cashier  in  a  store.  In  this  country 
we  do  not  expect  literature  of  the  higher  kind  from  such  a  girl. 
"  Meantime,  rest  quite  easy.  What  you  fear  cannot  happen. 
It  is  impossible,  since  you  alone  know  it.  And  as  for  this 
certificate  of  marriage,  it  might  be  found  if  one  were  to  institute 
a  search  in  all  the  parish  registers — by  offering  a  reward  for  its 
recovery.  But  you  have  no  money,  and,  in  a  few  days — how 
long,  I  do  not  know — the  necessity  of  finding  it  will  be  past 
and  gone." 

"I  am  so  thankful — oh!  so  thankful.     I  have  prayed,  night 

and  morning,  that  this  danger  might  be  averted.    Oh!  Margaret, 

you   don't   know — you   can't  guess — what   it  is   I   fear — what 

.  would  be  the  consequences — to  Ella — the  blight  upon  her  life — 

the  ruin  of  her  pride — the  shame  and  disgrace  of  it — " 

"  Ilush,  dear — don't  tell  me  any  more,  unless  it  would  relieve 
your  soul." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then,  because  I  must.  You  are  the  first 
person  to  whom  I  have  told  it.  I've  known  it  for  twelve  long 
years — my  b;"other  never  knew  it,  nor  suspected  it.  And  Ella 
doesn't  know  nor  suspect.  And  when  I  learned  it,  for  a  time 
the  sun  went  out  of  the  sky — and  I  lost  my  faith  in  God — for 
I  lost  my  faith  in  my  mother — in  my  mother.  Think  of  that! 
I  have  got  back  my  faith,  but  my  old  happiness — that  is  gone — 
and  oh!  let  me  spare  my  child  —  my  Ella  —  the  shame  that  I 
have  to  suffer  daily !"  She  clasped  her  hands  and  bowed  her 
head  and  her  lips  moved. 

"  My  mother  was  a  pious  woman,"  she  continued ;  *'  one  of 
those  who  go  to  chapel  every  Sabbath,  and  read  the  Bible  at 
home.  When  father  died,  she  read  her  Bible  more  and  more. 
But  she  was  not  a  cheerful  Christian ;  her  faith  did  not  give 
her  courage  ;  her  spirits  were  always  sad  and  low.  Sometimes 
she  sat  weeping  for  hours  together.  I  thought  it  was  because 
she'd  lost  father.  But  she  never  said  anything  to  me  until, 
twelve  years  ago,  she  fell  ill.  Oh  !  she  spoke — and  her  words 
were  like  the  scourge  of  an  offended  God." 

Margaret  took  her  hand.     "Be  comforted,"  she  murmured. 


"  CONFESS    YE    YOUR,   SINS  "  247 

"  If  she  told  you  of  some  great  sin,  it  was  a  sign  of  repentance. 
Think  of  what  a  mother  must  siifEer  when  she  has  to  confess 
her  sins  to  her  own  daughter.  Think  of  her  shame  and  of  her 
repentance !" 

"  Yes — yes  ;  I  do — I  do.  It  is  my  only  comfort — to  think 
of  her  repentance.  She  whispered  —  oh!  I  remember  every 
word — she  whispered  :  '  Lucinda,  my  dear,  St.  Paul  says,  "  Con- 
fess your  sins  to  one  another."  There  is  no  one  here  to  whom 
I  can  confess  my  sins,  except  to  you — no  one,  because  my  son 
must  never  know,  nor  his  child.  You  must  be  scape-goat,  to 
bear  this  secret.  Women  have  to  bear  everything.  You  shall 
hear  my  secret !'     And  so  she  told  me  all." 

"  She  told  you  all,"  Margaret  repeated. 

"The  dreadful  truth.  Nobody  would  ever  find  it  out;  yet 
she  could  not  die  with  that  secret  in  her  mind  untold.  I  have 
thought  of  it,  over  and  over  again.  Was  it  necessary  to  tell 
me  ?  Why  was  I  singled  out  for  the  secret  ?  She  told  me, 
however — "  She  stopped  again — she  could  not  bring  herself 
to  repeat  it.  Yet,  like  her  mother,  she  could  not  bear  upon 
her  soul  any  longer  the  weight  of  that  secret.  At  last  she 
strengthened  herself.  "  She  told  me  that  she — she  had  never 
been  my  father's  wife — she  was  the  wife  of  another  man — she 
had  left  him  for  my  father — they  came  out  together  to  America  ; 
and  when  they  settled  in  a  quiet,  respectable  town  it  would 
have  been  ruin  to  confess.  So  they  lived  and  died  in  sin. 
That  is  what  she  had  to  tell  me.  That  was  the  dreadful  bur- 
den on  her  soul." 

♦*  A  dreadful  burden,  surely.  Yet,  to  tell  her  own  daughter ! 
Oh,  think  of  the  repentance  and  the  pain  !" 

"  She  did  not  die.  But  she  lost  her  speech,  and  lived  so  for 
three  years  more.  And  all  the  time  her  eyes  followed  me 
about,  and  they  said  '  Keep  the  secret — keep  the  secret.  Don't 
let  my  son  know,  nor  the  child.'  And  every  now  and  then  I 
used  to  whisper  that  the  secret  was  safe.  But  oh  !  the  suffer- 
ing!— to  go  among  the  people,  to  sit  in  church  with  them,  to 
work  with  them,  and  feel  that  if  they  knew  the  truth  they 
would  shrink  from  me  as  from  a  leper !" 

"  But  no  one  did  know.  And  if  you  do  not  tell  any  one, 
vour  secret  is  safe  with  me.  How  should  Ella  ever  find  it  out?" 


348  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Mai-G^aret  did  not  tell  her  tliat  close  at  Aunt  Lucinda's  elbow  in 
the  lire-proof  safe  was  the  whole  of  the  family  history,  carefully 
drawn  out  by  her  husband's  father,  in  which  the  circumstances 
of  their  tiiglit  were  fully  narrated. 

"And  then — Ella  read  in  the  papers  about  this  inheritance — 
and  she  knew  a  good  deal  about  the  Burleys,  for  father  liked 
talking  over  the  old  days,  and  it  seemed  to  her,  naturally,  that 
she  was  one  of  the  heirs,  and  so  nothing  would  do  but  she  must 
come  over  here  to  claim  her  '  rights,'  as  she  called  them  ;  and 
then— think — then — oh!  what  was  I  to  do  ?  For  she  has  no 
rights— I  knew  enougli  of  law  for  that.  I  am  illegitimate  ;  so 
was  Ella's  father.  Therefore  Ella  has  no  rights.  Then,  if  she 
was  to  succeed  I  should  be  a  wicked  and  deceiving  woman,  hid- 
ing the  truth,  and  all  the  rest  of  my  life,  daily  and  liourlv all 

day  and  all  niglit — so  long  as  the  consequences  of  the  sin  should 
endure,  a  breaker  of  the  eighth  commandment.  I  have  turned 
that  over  in  my  mind.  No  one  knows  who  hasn't  tliouglit  it 
out — the  consequences  of  sin.  Think  !  Ella  might,  through 
me,  get  possession  of  all  this  money  wrongfully  ;  through  me, 
generation  after  generation  might  be  wronged  ;  long  after  I  was 
dead  would  arise  the  accusers  against  me." 

"  Do  not  fear,  Ella  will  not  inherit.  If  you  liad  only  told 
yourself  that  without  that  certificate  of  marriage  the  thing  was 
impossible,  you  would  have  been  quite  tranquil." 

"  01),  I  might  have  told  her  so  much  and  prevented  this  jour- 
ney to  England.  But  to  tell  her  the  whole  dreadful  truth  !  I 
could  not !     No  ;  I  could  not !" 

"  No — you  must  never  tell  her." 

"And  then  in  the  researches  and  the  opening  up  of  old 
stories,  who  knows  what  might  be  discovered  ?  1  liave  never 
been  so  wretched  except  in  the  first  week  after  my  mother's 
revelation."  She  sighed  heavily.  "  It  mattered  nothing  if  we 
were  put  off  and  made  to  wait — I  cared  nothing  at  all  about 
spending  all  our  money.  I  wouldn't  mind  lying  down  to  die 
and  have  done  with  it — only  a  Christian  woman  must  wait  to  be 
called.  If  only  Ella  should  never  find  it  out — never  find  it 
out !" 

This  was  the  burden  of  her  song — that  Ella  should  never  find 
it  out.     But  she  had  relieved  her  soul.     And  straightway  she 


"CONFESS    YE    YOUR    SINS  "  249 

began  to  mend  ;  her  pale  checks  put  on  a  little  color ;  her  lips 
assumed  the  semblance  of  a  smile  ;  and  her  eyes  lost  the  terror. 
"  Thank  Heaven  !"  said  Lucian,  "  you  have  laid  the  ghost,  Mar- 
garet— you  are  a  witch." 
11* 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
"  IMPOSSIBLE    TO    BE    FOUND    OUT  !" 

"  Impossible  to  be  found  out !" 

Is  there  anytliing  impossible  to  be  found  out  ?  Is  there  any 
man  so  old  as  to  feel  assured  that  the  thing  that  he  did  sixty, 
seventy  years  ago  will  not  be  found  out  before  he  dies  ?  Is 
tlirre  any  man  who  can  be  certain  that  tlie  history  of  his  grand- 
father will  never  be  revealed  to  the  world  ?  Why,  an  old  letter, 
an  old  note-book,  an  old  picture,  a  certificate  of  marriage — any- 
thing may  be  discovered.  Or  the  thing  is  certainly  known  to 
some  one  else,  and  will  by  some  one  else  be  discovered  and 
"whispered  abroad.  Sometimes  the  thing  is  not  found  out  till 
after  death,  which  is  merciful. 

The  other  day  they  found  a  letter  addressed  by  the  captain- 
governor  of  a  fortress  to  his  Egyptian  Majesty  three  thousand 
years  ago !  Shall  they  not,  therefore,  much  more  be  likely  to 
find  letters  written  by  you,  most  respectable  Senex — love-letters 
— written  to  one  Amaryllis,  my  Lady  Light  o'  Love — only  fifty 
years  ago  ?  "  I  have  always  taught  my  younger  clients,"  said 
one  of  those  practical  moralists — the  true  father-confessors  of 
the  age,  the  family  solicitor — "  always  to  act  in  the  full  belief 
that  the  tiling  you  are  doing  will  certainly  come  to  light."  An 
excellent  rule.  Young  readers  will  please  to  make  a  note 
of  it. 

"  Impossible  to  be  found  out,"  said  Sir  John. 

"  Impossible  to  be  found  out,"  said  Margaret,  who  knew  it 
all  the  time. 

You  shall  see. 

After  the  romantic  recovery  of  their  long-lost  ancestors,  the 
Burleigh  girls  were  naturally  anxious  to  visit  again  and  again 
the  gallery  of  family  portraits,  and  to  keep  Margaret  informed 


"impossible  to  be  found  out!"  251 

concerning  their  great  good-luck  and  the  uplifting  of  the  Bur- 
Icighs. 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  girls,  "that  John  of  Gaunt  and  Charles 
II.  and  the  noble  lords  our  ancestors  are  all  on  the  spindle 
side ;  but  there  they  are.  One  day  we  may  pride  ourselves  on 
the  Red  Rose  of  Lancaster,  and  another  on  the  Stuart  tartan,  and 
another  on  the  ancient  barons.  It's  much  prettier  to  say  '  on 
the  spindle  side'  than  'in  the  female  line.'  We  are  going  to 
take  the  genealogy  out  to  New  Zealand,  but  it  won't  do  to  flour- 
ish it  there.  The  New-Zealanders  would  turn  up  their  noses  at 
'such  a  magnificent  display  of  ancestors.  They  would  refuse  to 
believe  in  them.  For  them  we  shall  keep  the  other  side — the 
spear  side  —  fancy  the  pater  with  a  spear!  —  the  respectable 
family  of  the  Burleys.  It  will  be  quite  a  distinction  for  us  to 
be  connected  even  indirectly  with  this  mountain  of  gold — all  the 
world  has  heard  of  the  Burley  millions — and  nobody  will  be 
envious  or  jealous  because  granddad  was  only  a  bankrupt  sugar- 
baker,  and  our  cousin,  the  rich — very  rich — incalculably  rich — 
man,  was  only  a  money-lender.  Perhaps  you  will  let  us  copy 
one  or  two  of  the  portraits  just  to  show  them  in  New  Zealand," 

Now,  one  day  when  they  called  Margaret  was  out;  but  she 
was  expected  home  shortly,  and  they  went  in. 

Sitting  in  the  hall  they  found,  also  waiting  for  Margaret,  the 
old  woman,  their  cousin,  Lucinda  Avery,  whom  they  had  met 
on  the  occasion  of  their  second  visit.  She  was  then  in  the 
workhouse  dress,  but  this  had  now  been  changed  for  the  ordi- 
nary civilian  garb.  Lucinda  was  no  longer  an  "  inmate  "  of 
the  workhouse.  Why  do  we  reserve  the  word  "  inmate  "  for  the 
workhouse  and  the  lunatic  asylum  ?  She  had  been  taken  out 
by  Margaret  and  intrusted  to  the  care  of  certain  respectable 
persons,  who  were  instructed  to  keep  her  well  fed,  well  warmed, 
and  well  dressed.  To  be  warm  within  and  without;  to  feel  the 
physical  ease  which  belongs  to  abundant  food  ;  to  have  nothing 
to  do — it  was  all  this  poor  old  soul  asked  of  life — rest  and 
warmth.  It  is,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  all  that  working 
people  of  every  kind  ask  of  life.  When  one  is  dead — 
"Rcquiescat  in  pace!"  says  the  priest.  "Let  him  rest  from 
his  labors."  "  He  sleeps,"  say  the  people.  "  He  is  called 
to  his  eternal  rest."     As  if  to  do  no  more  work  would  be  the 


253  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

greatest  conceivable  happiness.  But  the  man  of  science  says, 
"Let  me  work  forever.  To  rest  would  weary  me  in  a  week. 
Let  me  be  called  to  my  eternal  work." 

The  needle-woman  sat  humbly  on  the  hardest  chair,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  her  spare  form  bent,  quite  patient,  ready  to 
wait  as  long  as  any  one  pleased  to  make  her  wait. 

"  Why,"  cried  the  girls  ;  "  it's  our  cousin — Lucinda  Avery  I" 

The  old  woman  stood  up  meekly  and  courtesied.  "  Sir  John's 
daughters,"  she  said.  "  Sir  John's  beautiful  young  daughters. 
Yes,  young  ladies.  Sir  John  is  my  cousin." 

"  And  you  are — you  are — in  the — " 

"  I  was  in  the  House.  My  fingers  bent  and  got  stiff,  and  I 
could  work  no  longer.  So  I  was  glad  to  go  in.  Cut  Mrs.  Cal- 
vert took  me  out.  She  said  that  she'd  found  a  cousin,  and  she 
wasn't  going  to  leave  her  in  the  workhouse.  I'm  quite  as  com- 
fortable where  she  has  put  me." 

"  Oh  !  But  we  are  your  cousins,  too.  Why  should  not  we 
help  ?     And  where  are  yon  now  ?" 

"  I've  got  lodgings,"  she  replied,  "  with  respectable  people. 
Mrs.  Calvert  pays  for  them." 

"  But  you  are  our  cousin,  as  well.  Won't  you  come  up-stairs 
with  us  and  talk  about  yourself  ?  We  are  waiting  for  Mrs.  Cal- 
vert." 

The  old  woman  followed  submissively.  She  obeyed  any  one 
■who  ordered  her,  as  behooves  one  who  knows  nothing  of  the 
outer  world  but  that  it  is  strong  and  masterful,  and  must  be 
obeyed.     She  followed,  sheep-like. 

In  the  drawing-room,  at  the  writing-table,  sat  a  girl  who 
looked  up  from  her  work  and  rose. 

"  Our  name  is  Burleigh,"  said  the  eldest.  "  We  know  Mrs. 
Calvert,  and  we  have  come  to  look  at  the  family  portraits  again. 
They  are  the  portraits  of  our  ancestors." 

"  Why,"  said  the  girl,  smiling,  "  I  am  named  Burley,  too. 
And  they  are  my  ancestors  as  well." 

"  Good  gracious !  and  this  old  lady's  mother  was  a  Burley  ! 
Then  we  are  all  cousins  together.  But  as  for  us,  we  cannot 
claim  the  big  fortune,  because  wc  are  descended  from  an  elder 
branch.     Perhaps  you  can  put  in  a  claim." 

*'  I  came  over  from  the  States  with  my  Aunt  Lucinda,  to 


"impossible  to  be  found  out!"  253 

claim  our  share,  if  we  could  get  it.  But  there  are  delays.  They 
want  more  proofs  than  we  can  find.  And  they  say  they  must 
wait  for  proof  of  the  death  of  the  man  who  should  be  the  heir. 
So  we  must  go  back  again — or  find  something  to  do  here — and 
wait  till  it  pleases  them  to  be  satisfied  that  he  is  dead.  And 
that  will  be — I  know  not  when." 

She  looked  clever,  this  bright -eyed,  sharp -faced  American 
girl,  and  capable  of  self-assertion  should  the  necessity  arise. 

"  Let  us  shake  hands  and  be  friends,"  said  the  New-Zealand- 
ers,  through  the  eldest,  "  since  we  are  not  rivals.  And  let  us  all 
hope  that  you  will  get  the  fortune  all  to  yourself." 

Then  they  looked  round  the  room  and  talked  about  the  pict- 
ures, and  found  likenesses  and  common  ancestors,  and  lamented 
such  of  the  family  disasters  as  they  knew,  and  wondered  about 
this  person,  and  sighed  over  that,  and  agreed  that  the  American 
consin  was  partly  like  her  great-grandmother — only  prettier — 
but  more  like  her  great-great-grandfather.  And  it  was  all  very 
pleasant.  And  they  pressed  the  American  cousin  to  bring  the 
cousinship  closer  together,  and  to  call  upon  her  New  Zealand 
kin  at  South  Kensington.  And  it  was  all  delightful,  until  the 
earthquake  came. 

It  happened  in  this  way.  The  old  woman,  whom  they  had 
placed  in  the  most  comfortable  chair  beside  the  fire — for  it  was 
a  chill  November  day — sat  placid  and  patient,  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  her  form  bent,  just  as  if  she  were  still  waiting  in  the  hall. 
She  did  not  know  pictures;  she  did  not  like  walking  about 
when  she  could  sit,  and  she  did  not  understand  the  chatter  of 
girls  among  themselves. 

"And  now,"  cried  one  of  the  New-Zealanders,  "let  us  hear, 
you  poor  old  thing,  all  about  yourself." 

They  sat  and  stood  and  grouped  themselves  about  tlie  old 
lady.  Ella  rang  for  tea,  and  they  asked  her  questions,  and  made 
her  talk. 

She  told  what  the  old  novels  used  to  call  her  simple  and  af- 
fecting narrative ;  that  is  to  say,  she  answered  questions. 

"  Oh  !"  they  cried.  "  What  a  life  !  What  a  dreadful  story  ! 
What  a  cruel  wretch  the  eldest  brother  must  have  been.  How 
happy  to  have  done  with  such  a  life  !  What  do  you  do  now? 
Do  you  read  much  ?" 


254  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  care  about 
reading.  AVe  never  liad  any  books,  and  I  never  did  read,  except 
on  Sunday  at  churcli,  I'd  sooner  stitch  than  read.  But  I  like 
to  liave  nothing-  to  do.  It's  liaving  Sunday  evening  all  the 
week  and  all  day  long." 

"  What  did  you  do  on  Sunday  evenings?" 

"  We  used  to  sit  together,  mother  and  me,  in  the  dark,  with 
the  street  -  lamp  outside,  and  she  told  me  about  her  family. 
Every  Sunday  evening  she  talked  about  them.  So,  you  see,  it's 
this  way.  Because  it's  all  Sunday  evening  with  me  now.  I 
think  about  nothing  but  mother's  family  all  the  time." 

They  gazed  upon  this  wonderful  old  lady  with  amazement. 
Was  there  anywhere  else  in  the  world  an  old  woman  who  never 
read,  except  in  her  prayer-book  ;  knew  nothing — absolutely  noth- 
ing ;  and  had  no  food  for  her  mind,  except  the  recollections  of 
her  mother  concerning  her  family.  Ancestral  worship  can  go 
no  further.  To  spend  the  evening  of  one's  days  in  remember- 
ing the  history  of  an  undistinguished — or  perhaps  an  undesira- 
bly notorious — middle-class  family. 

"  Tell  us,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  inspired  of  the  devil — "  tell 
us  something  about  them." 

It  was  half-past  six  ;  outside  twilight  had  fallen  ;  the  firelight 
fell  upon  the  faces  of  the  girls  gathered  round  the  fire,  and 
warmed  up  the  thin  cheek  of  the  old  woman  with  a  rosy  flush. 

"  Mostly  I  think  about  my  mother's  brother.  But  there  was 
lier  father  ;  she  used  to  talk  about  him  a  good  deal.  He  was  a 
dreadful  miser." 

Here  followed  a  chapter  on  the  miser,  containing  many  illus- 
trations of  the  miser's  miserly  misery. 

"  The  elder  brother  was  John — my  uncle  John — who  has  left, 
they  tell  me,  such  a  lot  of  money,  lie  was  dreadful  fond  of 
money,  too,  but  he  wasn't  such  a  miser.  He  didn't  stay  at 
home  and  grvib  for  money  ;  he  went  out  into  the  town  and 
made  more  money." 

Then  followed  the  history  of  the  money-lender  so  far  as  she 
knew.      We  have  heard  it  already. 

"  And  then  came  the  next  brother,"  suggested  another  of 
them,  also  inspired  by  the  devil. 

"  The  second  son  was  Ilenrv.     He  became  an  actor  after  he 


"IMPOSSIBLE    TO    BE    FOUND    OUt!''  255 

ran  awiiy.  Mother  lost  sight  of  him,  and  never  knew  what  he 
did  nor  how  he  got  on.  When  he  was  a  boy  he  used  to  make 
them  all  laugh  by  mimicking  everything,  especially  his  father. 
But  he  ran  away,  and  his  younger  brother  ran  away ;  and  when 
mother  was  left  alone  with  her  father  and  her  eldest  brother, 
she  had  to  run  away,  too.  And  so  she  did,  and  married  Cap- 
tain Avery,  my  father." 

Here  followed  the  history  of  that  unhappy  marriage,  with  its 
sequel  in  the  Fleet. 

"  Then  there  was  the  third  son.     He  was  named  Charles." 

"  That's  the  one  who  is  exactly  like  Herbert  —  our  only 
brother,"  one  of  the  sisters  explained.  '*  He  is  so  like  that  we 
all  thought  he  must  be  our  grandfather.     But  he  wasn't." 

"Charles  was  a  wild  young  man;  I  don't  know  what  he  did 
for  his  living.     But  he  committed  a  forgery — " 

"  Oh  !"     They  all  drew  breath  together.     "  A  forgery  !" 

"  Yes.  He  wrote  somebody  else's  name  on  a  paper  and  got 
money  for  it.  They  caught  him  and  tried  him,  and  he  was 
sentenced  to  death  ;  but  they  let  him  off,  and  he  was  transported 
for  life.     They  sent  him  to  Australia." 

"  Where  he  died,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  it's  a  long  time  ago  now. 
We  need  not  feel  very  much  shame  over  him." 

"  No  ;  he  didn't  die  in  Australia.  He  escaped  somehow, 
after  a  good  many  years,  and  came  home.  He  would  have  been 
hanged  if  he  had  been  caught.  He  found  out  mother — I  re- 
member him ;  it  was  when  we  were  living  in  the  Rules  of  the 
Fleet;  and  he  came  to  see  her,  and  brought  his  wife — her  name 
was  Marion,  I  remember — and  their  little  boy — I  remember  the 
little  boy — and  he  changed  his  name — spelled  it  different,  but 
it  sounded  the  same,  and  went  away  in  a  ship  to  New  Zealand. 
And  there,  mother  heard,  he  got  on  and  got  rich,  and  no  one 
ever  knew  out  there  who  he  was  nor  what  he'd  done,  nor  where 
he  came  from.  He  told  mother  what  he  was  going  to  do.  His 
son  was  never  to  know,  else  he'd  be  ashamed.  Got  rich  and 
prospered,  mother  heard.  And  it  was  never  found  out  what 
he'd  done,"  she  concluded.  She  had  forgotten  that  she  was 
speaking  to  Charles's  grandchildren.  She  was  just  repeating 
what  her  mother  had  told  her. 

There  was  dead  silence.     As  five  tall  lilies  for  want  of  water 


256  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

hano;  their  sweet  licaJs  and  droop  declining,  so  tliese  five  maid- 
ens drooped  and  bowed  their  lieads  in  sliameful  silence.  For 
the  story  could  not  be  mistaken  :  the  man  who  had  forged 
that  paper ;  the  man  who  had  been  transported  f-or  life,  and 
escaped ;  the  man  who  had  changed  his  name,  "  but  it  sounded 
the  same  ;"  the  man  who  had  a  w'ife — "  her  name  was  Marion  " — 
and  a  son ;  the  man  who  prospered  and  grew  rich — "and  no 
one  ever  knew  what  he  was  nor  what  he'd  done" — this  man  must 
be  none  other  than  their  grandfather,  and  the  beautiful  geneal- 
ogy was  a  long  lie  from  beginning  to  end. 

There  was  dead  silence.  Presently  one  of  the  girls  sobbed 
and  choked.     The  others  choked  as  well — repressing  sobs. 

The  old  woman  went  on. 

*'  Then  there  was  the  youngest  brother,  James." 

The  American  girl,  who  was  tilled  with  pity  for  her  cousins — 
because  she,  too,  read  the  story  and  saw  their  shame  unspeak- 
able— shivered.     Would  there  be  anything  terrible  for  herself? 

"  James  was  always  thought  a  very  steady  young  man — not 
like  Charles  or  Henry — and  not  a  money-grubber,  like  his  eldest 
brother — mother  said  she  was  never  so  astonisiied  in  her  life. 
lie  had  an  aunt  who  helped  him — and  he  became  a  lawyer — and 
he  was  going  to  be  a  partner  with  his  master,  who  was  an  old 
man,  with  a  very  young  wife — and  then — it's  shameful  to  say  it 
before  young  ladies — but  the  truth  is — he  ran  away  with  his 
master's  wife — and  he  took  her  out  to  America,  and  pretended 
she  was  his  wife." 

Then  the  sixth  head  bowed  down. 

And  there  was  silence  for  a  space. 

Then  the  old  woman  got  up.  "  I  must  be  going,"  she  said, 
cheerfully,  after  doing  all  this  mischief.  "  Good-night,  young 
ladies,  1  should  like  to  tell  you  more  some  day.  The  family 
has  had  dreadful  misfortunes.  There  was  the  one  who  was 
hanged,  and  the  one  who  went  mad.  Oh  !  There's  a  deal  to 
think  about  in  the  Burley  family.  I'll  come  and  tell  you  all  the 
troubles  over  again." 

When  she  was  gone  they  remained  in  silence.  Presently  the 
eldest  of  the  New  Zealand  branch  rose  and  touched  her  sister's 
shoulder,  and  they  all  rose  and  went  out,  leaving  Ella  alone  in 
the  room.     And  she  sat  there  in  the  firelicrht.     For  the  worst 


"IMPOSSIBLE    TO    BE    FOUXD    OUT  !"  257 

thing  that  could  possibly  hapjien,  in  her  mind,  was  this  thing : 
the  worst  crime  that  can  be  committed  by  any  man,  according 
to  her  Puritanic  views,  had  been  committed  by  her  grandfather 
and  her  grandmother — she  remembered  them  both — the  grave 
and  reverend  grandfather,  the  wisest  man  in  the  town,  the  friend 
and  adviser  of  all — and  her  grandmother,  white-haired,  reverend, 
dignified,  pious,  severe.     Oh  !  was  it  true  ?     Could  it  be  true  ? 

Margaret  came  home  about  seven.  Ella  had  gone  to  her  own 
room.     She  had  a  headache  ;  she  would  be  better  alone. 

The  others  went  home  by  the  underground  railway.  They 
had  a  carriage  to  themselves,  and  they  all  wept  and  cried  with- 
out reserve.  When  they  reached  home  they  gathered  together 
in  Lucy's  room. 

"  Mind  !"  said  the  eldest.  "  Not  a  word — not  a  look — not  a 
syllable — above  all  things,  the  dear  old  pater  must  never  know 
— never — never — never  !  Oh  !  it  would  ruin  his  life — "  She 
broke  down  and  sobbed.  "  And  mother  must  never  know — it 
would  kill  her.     The  shame  of  it — the  disgrace  of  it — " 

"  Not  a  word  !    Not  a  look  !  Not  a  syllable  !"  they  all  echoed. 

"  Cathie  " — Cathie  was  the  youngest — "  if  you  feel  you  can't 
sit  down  to  dinner  without  crying,  stay  here  and  say  you've  got 
a  sore  throat  or  something.  After  dinner  somebody  must  play 
— I'll  get  out  the  cribbage-board,  and  play  with  him.  We'll  go 
to  bed  early.  We  can't  trust  ourselves  to  talk.  Mind  !  Again — 
no  talking  about  it — even  among  ourselves.  Never  a  word  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives.  If  we  marry,  never  a  word  to  our  hus- 
bands. And  as  for  that  wretched,  lying,  miserable  genealogy, 
with  its  John  of  Gaunt  and  its  Joshua  Calvert  Burley — and  its 
sugar-baker  and  its  Charles  II. — let  the  pater  believe  in  it  still. 
And  we'll  pretend  —  and  let  us  forget.  Oh  !  let  us  try  to  for- 
get— if  we  never  speak  about  it !  If  we  go  home  soon- — away 
from  this  unfortunate  family — we  shall  be  able  to  forget." 

"  We  will  forget,"  they  cried.  "  We  will  try,  at  least,  to  for- 
get.    But—" 

There  was  one  thing  more  to  be  done. 

Lucy,  the  eldest,  did  it.  She  went  to  the  Church  of  St.  John 
the  Evangelist ;  she  found  the  parish-clerk,  and  she  examined 
the  register.  Joshua  Calvert  Burley.  He  was  baptized  on  July 
1st  in  the  year  1778.     So  far  the  genealogy  was  right. 


258  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

"  There's  a-many  come  here  now,"  said  the  parish-clerk,  "  to 
search  the  Burlcy  names.  All  trying  to  get  a  slice  off  the  big 
cake,  I  reckon.     As  for  the  name  Joshua,  he  occurs  again." 

So  he  did.  Two  years  later,  on  October  3,  1780,  little  Joshua 
Calvert  P.iirley  breathed  his  last.  It  was  hardly  likely  that  in  his 
short  life  of  two  years  he  could  have  found  time  to  start  a  new 
branch  of  the  Burley  family  tree — and  therefore  the  portrait  be- 
longed to  somebody  else — and  how  about  the  sugar-baker  ?  And 
how  about  John  of  Gaunt,  and  Charles  II.,  and  the  Earl  of  Ox- 
ford, and  the  Baron  Clifford  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE     SHAME      OF     IT  ! 

If  you  come  to  tliink  of  it,  almost  the  most  deadly  blow 
you  can  strike  at  a  girl  is  one  which  forbids  the  honor  and  re- 
spect due  to  those  she  loves — those  nearest  and  dearest  to  her. 
Ella  remembered  the  ancient  lady,  her  grandmother,  as  au- 
sterely religious,  constantly  reading  the  Bible,  always  serious. 
Could  the  story  be  possible  ?  AVas  it  an  invention  of  the  old 
woman's  ? 

That  old  lady,  her  grandmother,  in  the  white  widow's  cap 
and  black  dress,  who  sat  beside  the  stove,  knitting  in  her  hands 
for  occupation,  the  Bible  on  her  knees,  her  lips  moving,  but 
seldom  speaking  all  day  long — was  she  the  wife  of  another  man  ? 
To  think  of  this  terrible  secret  locked  up  in  her  heart  all  to  her- 
self !  Oh  !  why  was  it  suffered  to  be  made  known  after  all 
these  years  ? 

This  dreadful  story  seemed  for  the  moment  to  make  self- 
respect  henceforth  impossible.  We  recover  from  some  things. 
Not  from  such  a  thing  as  this,  which  can  never  be  shaken  off. 
It  has  to  be  accepted,  like  a  humpback.  To  be  sure,  it  can  be 
hidden  away,  which  the  humpback  cannot.  Very  many  people, 
I  believe,  have  got  some  such  secret  hump  on  their  backs ;  the 
skeleton  hangs  in  unsuspected  cupboards ;  the  young  men  and 
the  maidens  of  a  family  grow  up  with  the  knowledge  of  what  is 
behind  the  door.  Learned  in  this  way,  and  gradually,  the  story 
becomes  a  secret  burden,  borne  without  much  pain.  But  to  have 
a  skeleton  suddenly  presented  to  you,  cupboard  and  all ;  door 
wide  open  —  door  never  seen  before;  cupboard  invisible  till 
then  ;  skeleton  never  even  heard  of,  a  new  and  unexpected  skel- 
eton— this  may  be  very  terrible.  One  has  to  bear  it  as  one  can. 
No  use  whatever  in  crying  over  it.    The  thing  must  be  endured, 


260  BEVOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

and  one  must  go  about  as  if  there  were  nothing  wrong  at  all — no 
pain  anywhere. 

No  one  would  have  suspected  that  this  American  girl  had 
been  robbed  of  so  much.  She  became  more  silent,  perhaps, 
and  rather  pale ;  but  she  made  no  other  sign. 

She  kept  it  up  for  a  week ;  then  she  broke  down. 
It  was  in  the  evening,  after  ten  o'clock.  Aunt  Lucinda  had 
gone  to  bed.  The  lamps  were  lowered ;  the  firelight  fell  on  the 
portraits.  Margaret  sat  improvising  soft,  sad  music— letting  her 
fingers  ramble  over  the  keys  in  harmony  with  the  sadness  of  her 
thoughts.  Ella  sat  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fireside.  Lucian  was 
down-stairs  in  his  study.  Presently  Margaret  closed  the  piano 
witli  a  deep  sigh  and  came  to  the  fireside,  gazing  silently  and 
sadly  into  the  red  coal. 

Ella  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  Margaret,  you  are  unhap- 
py ;  you  sigh,  and  your  face  is  always  sad.  Are  we  all  to  be 
unhajjpy  ?" 

"  You,  at  least,  need  not,  Ella.  Yet  you  are.  AVhy  ?  Not  be- 
cause of  your  horrid  claim  ?  If  that  is  the  cause,  I  can  tell  you 
something  that  will  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  have  seen  trouble 
in  your  face  for  a  week  and  more." 

Then  it  was  that  Ella  broke  down,  and,  in  her  weakness,  con- 
fessed the  whole. 

"Margaret — that  cousin — that  old  woman  of  the  workhouse 
— Lucinda  Avery — " 
"  Well  ?" 

"  Does  she  know  all  the  family  history  ?  Is  what  she  says 
about  our  people  true  ?" 

"  I  believe  that  her  mother  tauijht  her  nothiufr  else." 
"We  were  in  the  drawing-room,  the  New  Zealand  girls 
and  I,  and  she  was  there ;  and  we  asked  her  about  our  people, 
and  she  told  us.  Margaret,  for  God's  sake,  do  not  let  Auntie 
know  !  It  would  kill  her — the  shame  of  the  thing  would  kill 
her." 

"  What  did  she  say,  dear  ?  That  is,  if  it  would  not  pain  you 
too  much  to  tell  me — " 

"  It  pains  me  more  to  keep  the  thing  a  secret.  She  said — she 
told  the  New  Zealand  girls — who  have  got  a  genealogy  a  mile 
long — that  their  grandfather  was  a  convict  transported  to  Aus- 


THE    SHAME    OF    IT  !  261 

tralia  and  escaped,  and — is  that  true,  Margaret?  You  who  know 
everything,  is  that  true  V 

"  Unhappily,  Ella,  it  is  true." 

"And  that  my  grandfather — my  grandfather — ran  away  with 
his  master's  wife — who  was  my  grandmother — my  grandmother, 
Margaret.  Since  they  never  married  in  Tewksbury,  they  never 
married  at  all.     Is  that  true,  Margaret?" 

"Give  me  both  hands,  Ella — both."  Margaret  took  her 
hands,  held  them — kissed  her  forehead.  "  My  poor  cliild — it  is 
true—" 

"  And  you  knew  all  along  ?  Oh  !  how  is  it  you  know  every- 
thing?   And  you  never  told  me  !" 

"  I  knew  that  secret.  Do  you  blame  me  for  not  telling  you  ? 
I  hoped  that  you  would  never  find  it  out." 

"  And  now  I  have  found  it  out — as  for  my  claim — that  is 
gone — and  a  good  thing  too.  Oh  !  Margaret — dear  Margaret — • 
don't  tell  Auntie — don't  let  her  ever  know." 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  telling  her.  You  had  better  not 
talk  with  her  about  your  grandparents  at  all.  And  now,  Ella, 
my  dear,  don't  think  about  this  matter  any  more." 

"Margaret" — Ella  sat  up  in  her  chair — "what  did  you  tell 
nic — you,  who  know  all  about  us?  That  disaster  followed  with 
that  fortune — even  on  the  mere  endeavor  after  it.  It  has  fallen 
upon  me.  I  came  over  in  search  of  it — I  thought  of  nothing 
else.  And  now  the  punishment  has  fallen  upon  me.  My  father 
w^s  the  son  of  sin  and  shame." 

"If  you  had  stayed  at  home  you  would  have  escaped  this 
evil.  Yes,  dear;  it  is  true.  Disaster  falls  surely  and  certainly 
upon  all  who  touch  that  accursed  pile  of  gold.  God  forbid  that 
the  smallest  piece  of  it  should  come  to  you  or  yours — or  to  me 
and  mine.  It  means  shame  and  misery.  To  us  women  it 
means  that  wc  must  bear  the  burden  of  the  men's  iniquities. 
To  us  it  means  the  knowledge  that  our  innocent  children  are 
only  born  that  they  may  endure  the  inheritance  of  tliose  sins." 
Margaret  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  sank  deep  into  her 
companion's  heart. 

"  Ella,  dear,  I  have  seen  thein  in  a  vision — in  broad  day- 
light— all  the  wives  and  daughters  that  you  see  upon  tliese 
walls,  and  more.     I  have  seen  them,  and  I  tremble  lest  their 


203  BEYOND  THE  OREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

lot  may  bo  mine.  Tlianlc  God,  dear,  dail}-,  that  you  liave  es- 
caped with  nothing  worse  tlian  the  knowledge  of  a  guilty  pair." 

"You,  Margaret? — you,  too,  concerned  about  this  inherit- 
ance ?  Then  you  must  be — or  your  husband  must  be — one  of 
us.  Oh !  when  I  first  thought  that  we  must  give  it  up — be- 
cause we  could  not  find  the  marriage  certificate — it  seemed  a 
most  dreadful  blow  ;  now  I  don't  mind  it.  I  have  come  to  sec 
that  botli  of  us,  Auntie  and  I,  are  most  unfit  for  the  burden  of 
great  wealth.  If  that  was  all — but  I  have  got  this  awful  secret 
to  endure.  I  liave  lost  my  reverence  for  that  dear  old  lady,  so 
full  of  dignity — the  memory  of  whom  has  always  been  a  per- 
petual admonition  of  the  Christian  life.  She  is  gone.  What 
am  I  to  put  in  her  place — a  shameful  adulteress  ?  I  cannot, 
Margaret — I  cannot." 

"A  repentant  woman.  The  past  forgotten  and  forgiven.  The 
Christian  woman  that  you  remember.  All  that  is  left  of  her — 
pure  and  most  womanly.  It  seems  as  if  the  most  difficult  les- 
son we  can  ever  learn  is  that  of  the  purifying  fire  of  repent- 
ance. Let  the  old  memory  survive,  Ella.  So  you  will  bear 
your  burden  better." 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  told  you.  I  feel  happier  again.  To-mor- 
row I  will  tell  Aunt  Lucinda  that  we  will  give  up  the  claim  al- 
together. I  feel  lighter  only  to  tliink  of  giving  up  the  claim. 
That's  enough  about  me.  Now,  Margaret — you  who  have  done 
so  much  for  me — can  I  not  do  something  for  you  ?" 

"  No ;  you  can  do  nothing  for  me.  There  is  but  one  person 
who  can  do  anything  for  me.  I  am  in  a  ship,  and  he  is  steer- 
ing— and  I  see  the  rocks  ahead,  and  he  sees  nothing  but  smooth 
water ;  and  in  a  day  or  two,  a  week  or  two — I  know  not  when — 
the  ship  will  be  on  tlie  rocks,  and  we  shall  be  wrecked.  That 
is  the  reason  why  I  am  unhappy,  dear." 

"  It  has  something  to  do  with  this  awful  estate,  Margaret. 
In  America  if  we  liave  religion  we  mean  it.  I  shall  pray  for 
you.  Aunt  Lucinda  says  that  we  prayed  for  a  miracle,  and  the 
Lord  sent — you.  If  I  pray,  wliat  will  the  Lord  send  ?  Some- 
thing." 

In  the  night,  or  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  Ella  woke 
with  a  start,  for  she  heard  a  voice.  You  know  how  a  voice — 
which   is  no  voice — does   sometimes  ring   through  the    brain. 


THE    SHAME    OF   IT  !  263 

crying,  echoing,  loud  enougli  for  all  the  world  to  hear.  This 
•was  a  voice  that  explained  everytliing.  Many  things  have  been 
explained  by  such  a  voice  ;  the  school-boy  in  the  night  receives 
the  solution  of  his  problem  from  this  voice ;  the  hesitation  as 
to  this  or  that  line  of  action  is  finally  ended  by  this  voice — it 
is  not,  you  see,  a  voice  that  begins  a  new  thing,  or  reveals  a 
new  truth.  There  are  no  revelations  in  dreams.  But  someliow 
in  sleep,  or  at  waking,  the  mind  carries  on  the  thoughts  of  the 
evening,  and  the  voice  brings  a  solution.  This  voice  cried, 
"  Lucian  is  none  other  than  the  grandson  ;  it  is  he  who  may 
take  the  whole  if  he  wishes.  He  has  promised  not  to  take  it; 
but  he  is  tempted  more  and  more — and  Margaret  looks  on,  and 
waits,  and  dreads." 

She  received  this  message.  Then  she  turned  her  head  on  the 
pillow  and  went  to  sleep  again,  for  reflection  would  come  better 
in  the  morning  than  in  the  dead  of  night.  In  the  morning  she 
perceived  what  a  wonderful  discovery  she  had  made ;  and  now 
she  understood  why  Lucian  was  like  his  great-grandfather,  Cal- 
vert Burley — the  resolute,  the  masterful,  and  the  unscrupulous. 
Kesolution  was  his — and  mastery  ;  was  the  third  gift  also  his  al- 
ready, or  would  he  assume  it  with  the  inheritance  of  Ruin  and 
Destruction  ? 


CHAPTER  XXX HI 

THE    STORY    OF    A    DREAM 

In  this  unexpected  way  the  American  girl  discovered  the 
secret  of  tlie  House.  Strange  that  no  one  else  should  have 
found  it  out.  Why,  his  face,  his  eyes,  his  hair — all  betrayed 
him.  And  what  was  he  thinking  about  always,  tliis  strong 
man  who  sat  so  silent,  his  face  exactly  like  that  of  the  first 
Calvert,  resolute  and  masterful  ?  AVhat  but  of  the  immense 
fortune  that  awaited  him  if  he  only  chose  to  put  out  his  hand 
and  take  it?  A  great  and  terrible  temptation.  For  such  a 
man  as  this  would  not  desire  wealth  for  its  own  sake — not  for 
the  life  of  pleasure,  but  for  some  worthier  objects.  She  thought 
of  her  own  castles  when  first  she  dreamed  of  getting  it  all  for 
herself.  As  her  dreams  were,  so  would  his  be,  but  wiser — 
perhaps  more  generous.  x\n  American  girl  is  not  too  ready  to 
admit  the  superiority  of  a  man.  Ella  watched  him  at  breakfast 
and  at  dinner.  She  saw  that  the  temptation  was  always  in  his  '' 
mind.  She  saw  his  face  growing  more  resolute,  and  she  knew 
that  the  end  was  very  near. 

It  is  venturesome  to  interfere  between  husband  and  w'ife. 
Ella  ventured. 

"  Lucian  "  (she  attempted  the  thing  in  his  study),  "  I've  got 
something  to  say.  Are  you  too  busy  ?  So — then — what  is  the 
matter  with  Margaret  ?" 

"  With  Margaret  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  nervous — she  is  anxious  about  something." 

"  I  think  that  Margaret  is  quite  well.  But  I  will  talk  to 
her." 

"  Think  she  is  well  ?  Why,  Lucian,  what  is  the  good  of 
being  a  physician  and  a  husband,  and  a  lover,  too,  not  to  see 
that  she  is  ill,  witliout  being  told  ?" 


TIIK    STORY    OF    A    DREAM  265 

"I  Avill  talk  to  her,"  he  replied.  How  could  lie  explain  that 
between  them  stood  a  figure  which  to  one  showed  like  Dame 
Fortune  in  her  best,  her  most  smiUng  mood,  and  to  the  other 
looked  like  Siva  the  Destroyer?  How  should  he  guess  that 
this  girl  saw  the  figure  as  plainly  as  either  he  or  Margaret? 

"  You've  got  to  talk  to  her,  then,  and  to  look  after  her,  and  let 
her  have  whatever  she  wants.  You've  got  to  think  more  about 
her,  and  less  about  your  science  and  your  profession,  Lucian. 
If  you  were  a  lower  kind  of  man,  I  should  say  you've  got  to 
think  less  about  yourself." 

"  I  will  talk  to  Margaret  as  seriously  as  ever  you  can  desire, 
Ella.  She  has  looked  nervous  lately.  I  will  see  to  it  at  once, 
I've  had  a  good  deal  to  think  of." 

"  Lucian  "  (Ella  took  his  arm-chair  and  sat  down  in  it),  "  I 
often  wonder  why  you  are  always  thinking — thinking — think- 
ing. Have  you  got  some  mighty  discovery  on  your  mind  ?  Are 
you  going  to  invent  a  bacillus  that  will  inoculate  the  whole 
world  into  perfect  health  ?  That  is  the  kind  of  bacillus  we 
want — a  ravenous  bacillus  that  will  eat  up  all  the  other  bacilli, 
like  Moses's  serpent,  and  then  spread  itself  out  comfortably  and 
expire.  Is  that  what  makes  yon  so  silent — I  suppose  I  must 
not  say  moody  ?" 

"Am  I  silent,  Ella?  There  is  something,  perhaps,  on  my 
mind.  You  know  one  has  to  think  of  many  things,  and  I — 
well — perhaps  I  have  reason  to  think  more  than  usuak" 

"I  hope  it  will  be  successful  thinking,  and — oh!  Doctor — 
Doctor  Lucian — I  hope  it  will  be  something  that  will  make 
Margaret  happy  again.  Cure  her — cure  her — cure  her  first, 
physician — before  you  cure  the  rest  of  the  world." 

Even  the  thought  of  Margaret  was  powerless  against  the 
temptation.  His  face  hardened.  He  made  no  reply.  Ella 
left  him.  She  had  fired  her  shot.  Perhaps  it  would  be  use- 
less. Perhaps  it  might  recall  him  to  a  sense  of  what  he  was 
throwing  away.  For  the  shipwreck  that  Margaret  foresaw 
would  be  the  wreck  of  her  married  life — love,  happiness,  ev- 
erything. She  would  never,  Ella  understood,  join  her  husband 
in  any  part  or  share  of  this  estate.  "The  ship,"  said  Ella,  '"is 
very  near  the  rocks." 

At  dinner  the  same  day  she  made  another  attempt  to  combat 

12 


266  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

the  temptation.  It  was  a  silent  dinner,  but  Ella  forced  the 
talk. 

"  Lucian,"  she  said.  He  looked  up  abstractedly.  "  I  want 
to  tell  you  sometliing.  You  have  not  spoken  for  at  least  ten 
minutes,  which  shows  that  you  are  now  in  a  good  mood  for 
listening.  Now,  attention !"  she  rapped  the  table  with  the 
handle  of  a  knife. 

"Well,  Ella?" 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you — and  Margaret — about  our  claim,  and 
all  about  it." 

"  Yes,  WQ  shall  be  very  much  interested." 

"  You  know  the  Grand  Triumphal  March  of  the  American 
Claimants,  and  the  huge  lump  of  solid  happiness  we've  got  out 
of  our  march,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  we  know  something." 

'*  Very  well.  We  have  withdrawn  our  claim.  Auntie  has 
tied  up  all  the  papers,  and  it  has  come  to  an  end." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  wise,  considering  the  difficulties  in  your 
way." 

"  Perhaps ;  but  consider — all  the  way  from  Tewksbury  here, 
and  all  the  time  we  have  been  here,  I  have  had  the  most  gor- 
geous dream  that  ever  came  to  any  girl — a  dream  of  Boundless 
Wealth.  I  have  been,  like  Tennyson,  building  for  my  soul  a 
Palace  of  Art.  I  have  been  dispensing  with  both  hands  un- 
heard-of blessings — and  now  it  is  all  over." 

"  You  feel,  I  dare  say,  a  little  lonely." 

"Just  a  little,"  she  interrupted.  "  Lucian,  do  you  know  what 
it  is  like  ?"  She  spoke  simply,  without  the  least  suspicion  of 
double  meaning  in  her  voice  or  in  her  eyes.  "  Did  you  ever 
have — you — a  Dream  of  Untold  Gold  ?" 

Margaret  started  and  bowed  her  head.  Lucian  started  and 
dropped  his  fork.  Why,  at  that  very  moment  he  was  longing 
to  wander  away  in  such  a  dream — a  vision  in  which  he  stood 
forth  as  the  greatest  benefactor  that  science  ever  knew.  He 
dropped  his  fork — a  thing  no  one  ever  docs  except  at  moments 
of  sudden  shock.  In  the  last  century,  when  a  man  was  startled 
his  mouth  opened  and  his  jaws  stuck.  That  was  the  recognized 
and  highly  poetical  manner  of  receiving  the  unexpected.  In 
these  days  a  man  drops  what  at  other  times  he  never  drops 


THE    STORV    OF    A    DREAM  267 

at  all — his  fork,  his  umbrella,  his  pen.  The  ancestral  manner  is 
the  more  striking.  Lucian  dropped  his  fork  ;  he  changed  color ; 
he  looked  up  quickly  and  suspiciously.  The  girl's  face  ex- 
pressed perfect,  unsuspecting  ignorance  and  innocence. 

"  I  don't  mean,  you  know,  the  ordinary  wealth  that  makes  a  rich 
man  such  as  we  call  rich — a  man  with  a  million  or  two — just 
independent  of  work  —  having  to  think  before  he  spends  ten 
thousand  dollars — I  mean  Boundless  Wealth — such  wealth  as 
I  once  hoped  to  inherit.  The  wealth  that  I  came  over  in  order 
to  get — and  haven't  got." 

Lucian  picked  up  the  fork  and  fenced,  not  with  it,  but  with 
the  question, 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  we  all  have  some  such  dream,  at 
odd  times.  It  does  no  harm  to  dream  of  things  possible  only 
for  one  man  in  a  dozen  centuries." 

"  Mine  was  a  lovely  dream.  "Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you 
about  it?  I  know  you  won't  laugh,  Margaret,  over  the  foolish- 
ness of  my  dream." 

"  Nobody  will  laugh,  Ella." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  It  began  as  soon  as  I  was  able 
to  understand  what  it  meant  to  be  the  heir  of  the  Burley  prop- 
erty. You  can't  rise  to  it  all  at  once,  especially  if  you  are  an 
American  girl  working  in  a  store  at  five  dollars  a  week.  You 
understand  ten  dollars  perhaps,  or  even  twenty,  but  it  wants 
great  imagination  for  such  a  girl  to  get  beyond  that.  I  suppose 
it  was  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks  before  I  even  began  to  under- 
stand. I  used  to  set  down  the  figures,  all  in  a  row,  and  look  at 
them  till  they  got  lengthened  out — you  know  what  eyes  will 
do  with  things  if  you  look  long  enough  and  let  them  have  their 
own  way.  They  stretched  out — so  " — she  followed  an  imagi- 
nary line  with  her  hand — "to  miles  and  miles  and  miles  of  mill- 
ions, till  I  used  to  think  I  was  going  off  my  head.  The  figures 
got  the  better  of  me  for  a  time.  If  ever  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  saw 
along  procession  of  them — round  naughts  without  units — rolling 
wheels  one  after  the  other,  never  ending.  Well,  I  got  the  bet- 
ter of  them  at  last,  and  then  the  dream  began.*  I  had  first  to 
conquer  the  figures,  you  see,  and  make  them  feel  that  I  was  go- 
ing to  rule  them.     Did  you  ever  feel  that  way,  Lucian?" 

'•  Not  altoircther." 


268  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"So  tlic  dream  began;  and  1  was  the  Queen  of  all  the  Treas- 
ure, and  was  doing  with  it — oh  !  the  most  inconceivable  amount 
of  good  to  the  whole  world.  I  just  scattered  blessings.  I  was 
the  most  benevolent  fairy  that  you  ever  saw.  That  was  how  it 
began — just  with  blessings  in  the  abstract — vague,  you  know — 
shadowy  blessings.  I  think  I  enjoyed  that  phase  of  the  dream 
best.     Then  it  changed.     Have  you  felt  that  way,  Lucian  ?" 

"Not  altogether.     But  go  on." 

"Then  I  becan  to  settle  down — we  were  on  board  the  steam- 
er  by  this  time,  and  the  weather  was  awful,  and  as  for  poor 
Auntie — but  I  was  too  busy  with  my  dream  to  notice  things. 
I  began  to  settle  down,  I  say.  I  asked  myself  definitely  what  I 
was  going  to  do.  You  see,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  was 
going  to  get  the  whole  estate — I  had  no  manner  of  doubt  about 
that.  AVell,  where  was  I  to  live  ?  Not  in  effete  Europe,  not  in 
a  corrupt  European  capital — that  was  the  Avay  I  used  to  think 
six  weeks  ago.  It  must  be  in  America — the  Land  of  the  Free. 
So  I  chose  Boston,  and  I  thought  I  would  have  one  of  the 
houses  looking  over  the  Common.  And  as  for  Tcwksbury — 
which  I  then  discovered,  for  the  first  time,  to  be  quite  a  little 
place,  I  couldn't  live  there — that  wasn't  at  all  a  fit  place  for  the 
queen  of  all  that  treasure — but  I  would  do  something  for  it — 
AVhat  r 

She  paused  for  any  one  to  make  a  suggestion.     No  answer. 

"  I  thought  I  would  build  a  great  and  splendid  college." 

Lucian  started,  and  looked  at  the  speaker  with  swift  sus- 
picion. No — innocence  itself  was  in  l)er  eyes.  Indeed,  though 
I  believe  that  her  first  question  was  artful  and  designing,  and 
based  upon  her  discovery,  the  rest  was  pure  coincidence. 

"  A  college — yes — a  college  for  girls  only,  where  they  should 
learn  everything  that  men  learn — they  do  that  already,  almost. 
In  my  college  they  should  do  it  quite.  There  are  some  things 
still  left  for  men — mechanical  engineering,  ship-building,  ma- 
chines and  engines,  electricity — everything,  everything,  I  would 
have  taught  in  my  college  besides  the  usual  history  and  lan- 
guages and  art  and  science." 

Lucian  nodded  his  head.  "  You  would  make  them  also 
navvies,  ploughboys,  hodmen,  sawyers,  carters,  draymen  ?" 

"  Wliv  not  ?     There  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  learn. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    DKEAM  269 

Anyhow,  I  tell  you  I  was  just  going  to  make  the  finest  college 
in  the  world,  and  to  plant  it  down  at  Tewksbury,  and  to  leave 
them  to  work  it  out.  Can  any  one  say  that  I  was  unmindful 
of  my  native  town  ?     Wasn't  that  a  noble  dream  ?" 

"  Very  noble  indeed,"  said  Lucian,  with  a  little  restraint. 

"I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  think  so.  Because,  here  in  Eng- 
land you  won't  acknowledge — what  an  American  understands 
quite  well — that  women  are  fast  becoming  the  leaders  of  the 
world." 

"  No.     I  think  we  have  hardly — " 

"  Not  yet.  But  you  wiU.  The  men  will  go  on  working ; 
they  will  have  to  do  the  work  that  the  women  leave  them. 
They  will  make  things — all  the  men  in  Tewksbury  make  chair- 
legs,  for  instance — they  will  plough  and  reap ;  and  they  will  do 
the  buying  and  the  selling — they  will  do  the  money-making. 
That  is  essentially  a  branch  for  the  coarser  wit  of  men.  Of 
course  it  will  not  be  considered  in  the  future  a  noble  branch  of 
work." 

"This  is  all  part  of  your  dream  ?" 

"  Of  course.  My  college  was  intended  to  advance  the  su- 
premacy of  women.  Oh  !  I  know  what  you  are  thinking :  no 
woman  yet  the  equal  of  the  greatest  men.  Why,  you  have 
never  given  us  the  opportunity,  and  you  can't  deny  that  even 
with  our  limited  chances  the  average  woman  is  far  better  than 
the  average  man.  Woman  is  essentially  the  administrator. 
Why,  it's  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  a  man  who  can 
administrate  ;  he  must  be  a  soldier  or  a  teacher.  But  you  may 
find  a  woman  who  is  a  good  administrator  in  every  other 
house." 

"Your  woman  of  the  future — will  she  also  light?" 

"  Why  not?  The  old  fighting — the  club  and  knife  and  fist — 
is  gone.  You  fight  from  a  distance.  Your  rifies  are  too  heavy  ; 
but  when  you  substitute  electricity  for  powder,  you  will  have  a 
light  weapon  that  we  can  carry  as  well  as  you.  And  as  for  en- 
durance in  a  campaign,  the  average  woman  will  endure  far  bet- 
ter than  the  average  man." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Lucian,  culdly. 

"Yes,  and  the  most  beautiful  point  about  it  was  that  I  did 
not  want  the  fortune  for  my  own  use.     I  wanted  it — all  of  it — 


270  BEYOND    THE    DKEAMS    OF    AVARICE 

for  the  advancement  of  the  world.  Oh,  it  was  grand  !  There 
was  I — just  I  by  myself — on  a  pinnacle,  a  spectacle  for  all  the 
world,  five  feet  three  in  my  boots — Ella  Burley  by  name — native 
of  Tewksbury,  Massachusetts  —  a  girl  clerk  in  a  store  —  who 
knew  nothing  outside  my  books — standing  behind  the  great 
round  world  and  rolling  it  uphill  all  by  myself." 

*' Why  not,"  asked  Lucian,  "if  you  have  the  money?  That 
is  the  power." 

"  Ah  !  But,  you  see,  that  is  a  mistake.  It  is  not  the  money 
that  rolls  the  world — it  is  the  man.  I  don't  know  whether  my 
college  would  have  taught  the  girls  any  better  than  any  other 
college.  But  I  do  see  now  that  it  wouldn't  have  quickened  or 
diverted  the  current  one  bit  unless  it  was  connected  with  a 
strong, person — a  man,  if  you  like.  Well,  it's  all  over  now," 
she  laughed.  "All  over,  and  I  am  so  glad — so  glad  ;  and  so  is 
Auntie." 

"  Since  you  are  pleased,  Ella — "  said  Lucian,  feebly. 

"  Well,  at  first  I  was  disappointed.  It  seemed  a  thousand 
pities  to  give  up  such  a  dream.  Presently  I  remembered  some- 
thing in  Browning.  I  can't  quote  the  lines.  He  shows  how 
everybody,  who  desires  anything  strongly,  especially  if  he  de- 
sires good  things,  feels  like  the  Greek  mathematician — that,  if  he 
only  had  a  stand-point  for  his  lever,  he  could  move  the  world. 
But  he  can't — and  he's  got  to  be  content  to  stand  where  he  is 
placed,  and  to  move  if  he  can  his  own  little  bit  of  the  world. 
So  we  must  be  content  with  our  little  bit.  As  for  all  that  stuff 
about  women  leading — it  was  the  kind  of  rubbish  we  talked — 
some  of  us;  and  my  college,  which  was  to  teach  them  every- 
thing, what  was  it  all  but  empty  vanity  and  conceit?" 

Margaret  at  this  point  looked  at  her  husband.  He  lifted  his 
eyes  and  met  hers. 

After  a  little  pause  he  spoke.  But  he  made  no  reply  to  the 
last  little  speech  about  the  empty  vanity. 

'•We  are  all  of  us  moving  the  world,"  he  said,  "if  we  are 
working  at  science.  I  see  no  other  way  of  moving  or  advancing 
the  world.  If  your  college  had  been  founded,  it  might  have 
.been  an  excellent  college,  and  a  real  centre  for  scientific  dis- 
covery;  on  the  other  hand,  it  might  have  failed.  There  is  no 
reason  that  I  can  see  why  women  should  not  advance  science. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    DREAM  271 

They  have  not  done  so  as  yet ;  but,  then,  very  few  have  at- 
tempted in  that  direction.  As  for  women  leading  the  world, 
either  in  any  high  line  or  as  administrators — there,  fair  dreamer 
of  dreams,  I  venture  to  diifer." 

"  Very  well.  But  what  would  you  do,  Lucian,"  she  asked, 
still  with  a  look  of  open  innocence,  "  if  you — but  of  course  you 
are  too  sensible — could  entertain  such  a  dream  ?" 

"  If  I  ever  entertained  such  a  dream  as  you  say,  it  would  be 
to  advance  science  in  some  way." 

"  Just  like  me,  then.     But  you  would  advance  science  only  ?" 

"Yes;  because  I  see  no  hope  for  the  advancement  of  the 
world  except  by  science." 

"  I  have  always  been  taught,"  she  replied,  softly,  "  that 
there  was  a  larger  hope.  However,  what  do  yon  mean  to  do 
for  the  world,  especially  by  your  science  ?" 

"The  possibilities  of  science  are  such  that  we  can  no  more  un- 
derstand them  than  we  can  limit  them.  At  the  present  we  are 
still  on  the  threshold.  Future  ages  will  ridicule  us  when  they 
read  that  we  thought  only  of  prolonging  life,  destroying  dis- 
ease, alleviating  pain,  arresting  decay.  It  will  seem  to  them 
child's  play  when  we  proposed  to  lessen  labor  by  the  half 
— by  three-quarters;  to  multiply  food  products  indefinitely,  to 
destroy  poverty,  to  raise  the  standard,  to  lift  up  the  poor  to 
the  level  of  the  rich,  and  to  make  the  world  a  garden  for  men 
and  women  as  long  as  they  like  to  live  in  it.  Of  life,  in  the  long- 
run,  there  would  be,  I  take  it,  satiety  in  the  end." 

"A  world  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  itself!  AVhy, 
Lucian,  your  people  would  have  to  alter  a  good  deal  first.  Only 
to  think  of  pleasure !  What  a  world  it  would  be  !  Why,  if 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  your  science  would  produce  a  universal 
pigsty.  Fancy  taking  all  this  trouble  to  produce  a  world  with 
nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  itself  !  You  are  a  very  clever  man, 
Lucian,  but  I  do  hope  you  will  not  get  your  college.  If  you 
do,  I  shall  go  and  live  on  a  desert  island." 

Ella  laughed,  but  Margaret  did  not.  She  looked  at  her  hus- 
band, who  replied,  gravely:  "You  do  not  understand,  Ella. 
These  things  will  not  arrive  all  at  once.  The  world  will  be  pre- 
pared by  gradual  achievements.  And  in  such  a  world  the  pig- 
sty will  not  be  permitted." 


272  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"  People  don't  want  much  preparation  for  less  work  and 
more  pay.  But  it's  a  curious  thing,  Lucian,  isn't  it,  that  your 
dream — a  scientific  man's  dream — should  be  no  better  than 
mine  ?  You  are  a  biologist,  a  physician,  and  I  know  not  what, 
and  I  am  only  a  girl  clerk  from  Tewksbury,  Massachusetts, 
and  we  dream  the  same  dream.  And  both  the  dreams  are  fool- 
ishness !     Only  think !     Both  foolishness." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ANOTHER  DREAM  OF  DEAD  MOTHERS 

After  this  little  discussion  of  the  impossible  dream  there  was 
silence  for  a  space,  three  out  of  the  four  feeling  guilty.  Then 
Margaret  rose.  Lucian  remained  behind,  shaken  out  of  the  even 
tenor  of  the  dream,  which  now  held  him  day  and  night.  In  the 
drawing-room  the  three  ladies  sat  without  the  exchange  of  many 
words.  As  for  the  coincidence,  what  could  be  more  natural 
than  that  Ella  should  speak  of  her  dream  ?  Everj'body  knew 
she  had  entertained  such  a  dream,  and  had  been  living  in  it,  and 
clinging  to  it,  until  it  became  impossible  in  the  way  that  you 
have  seen.  But  something  was  going  to  hapi^en.  Everybody 
knows  the  feeling  that  something  is  going  to  happen.  The  two 
women  were  expectant. 

Something  was  going  to  happen.  Anybody  may  say  so  much 
at  any  time.  Something  is  always  going  to  happen;  something 
happens  every  day  ;  but  not  something  that  may  change  the 
whole  current  of  a  life,  may  poison  its  stream,  may  turn  sweet 
water  into  bitter ;  something  that  may  choke  the  spring  of  hap- 
piness ;  that  kind  of  something  we  do  not  expect,  else  were  life 
intolerable. 

Presently  the  clock  struck  ten.  Margaret  rose.  "  Good- 
night, dear,"  she  said.  "  I  must  go  down  to  Luciaii,  I  think. 
AVe  have  to  talk  together  to-night.  Good-night,  Ella;  your  eyes 
follow  me  about.  You  are  like  your  grandfather's  portrait. 
My  dear,  I  know  not  what  may  happen.  Perhaps  to-night  all 
my  future — "  She  checked  herself ;  she  had  said  already  more 
than  she  should  have  said. 

She  went  down  the  stairs  with  trembling  steps  and  beating 
heart.    She  stood  before  the  study  door  for  a  moment  hesitating. 
Then  she  opened  it  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 
12* 


274  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"Come  in,  Margaret,"  said  her  husband — "come  in.  You  so 
seldom  show  up  here  since  the  American  cousins  came.  Come 
in  and  shut  the  door.     Let  us  be  alone." 

"What  arc  you  doing,  Lucian  ?"  He  held  before  him  a 
sheet  of  paper  covered  with  figures  and  calculations.  "Is  it 
still  the  dream  of  unbounded  wealth  ?" 

"  Always  that  dream,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  with  forced  cheer- 
fulness. "  It  never  leaves  me.  I  confess  that  for  the  time  I 
can  think  of  nothing  else.  That  is  not  surprising  when  you 
consider  the  importance  of  it." 

"  And  your  dream,  after  all,  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  of  a 
girl,  ignorant  of  the  world,  from  an  obscure  village  in  the  State 
of  Massachusetts."  Margaret  had  never  before  in  all  her  life 
attempted  to  be  sarcastic. 

"  Iler  dream!"  —  he  laughed  scornfully — "her  dream  com- 
pared with  mine?  My  dear  Margaret,  you  have  not  attempted 
even  to  grasp  the  greatness  of  my  scheme.  Every  day  it  grows 
upon  me — it  throws  out  new  branches  in  all  directions,  it  brings 
forth  unexpected  fruit,  it  is  going  to  be  the  most  noble  college 
of  philosophy  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Don't  talk  to  me 
of  that  thing  she  called  a  college." 

"Yet  it  is  the  same.  And,  like  that  girl,  you  want  none  of 
the  fortune  for  yourself." 

"None.  I  would  not  stir  an  inch,  Margaret,  believe  me,  to 
get  this  money  for  myself.  So  far,  I  respect  my  father's  wish 
and  my  promise  to  you." 

"But,  Lucian,  remember  what  that  girl  said.  Though  you 
say  you  want  nothing  for  yourself,  you  see  yourself  everywhere 
— it  is  your  own  glory  that  you  desire  for  yourself — glory  as 
lasting  as  the  monument  you  would  raise." 

He  interrupted  her  impatiently.  "You  invent  motives — what 
business  has  the  world  with  motives?  We  want  deeds;  we  need 
not  ask  the  motives." 

"  In  my  husband  I  look  for  noble  motives.  Well,  say  that  you 
desire  to  do  some  great  thing  for  science.  My  dear,  consider; 
you  are  young,  you  have  begun  well ;  go  on  in  your  line  and  do 
this  great  thing.  It  will  be  far  greater  for  you  if  you  do  it — 
you  yourself — than  if  you  build  a  palace  and  hire  laborers  to  do 
it  for  you." 


ANOTHER  DREAM  OF  DEAD  MOTHERS  275 

"  I  have  seen  Nicliolson,"  Liician  replied,  evasively.  "  He  tried 
to  dissuade  me  from  my  purpose ;  but  finding  that  to  be  impos- 
sible, he  undertook  the  case,  and  has  taken  my  papers  to  the 
Treasury  to-day — all  the  papers  in  the  case.  He  has,  in  fact, 
already  put  in  my  claim.  And  of  course  there  can  be  no  doubt 
and  no  delay.     Well,  Margaret,  the  thing  is  done." 

Margaret  dropped  into  a  chair,  "  Oh,"  she  moaned,  "  he  has 
done  it,  after  all  !" 

"  It  was  necessary,  if  only  that  the  unfortunate  claimants  who 
are  hanging  on  and  hoping  on  might  be  put  out  of  their  pain. 
I  told  you  at  the  outset,  Margaret,  that  if  I  could  not  have  this 
fortune  nobody  else  should." 

"You  have  sent  in  the  papers,  you  have  put  in  your  claim  ; 
and  after  your  promise  to  me — a  promise  as  binding  as  your 
marriage  vows." 

"  Can  you  not  see,  Margaret,  that  a  woman's  superstitious 
whim  cannot  stand  against  interests  so  gigantic  as  these  ?  I 
warned  you.  It  has  been  evident  to  you  what  was  coming.  Be- 
sides, the  claim  is  not  for  me — it  is  for  the  thing  I  am  going  to 
do." 

She  said  nothing,  but  she  clasped  her  liands  and  swung  her- 
self backward  and  forward  as  one  who  is  in  grievous  pain, 

Lucian  went  on  justifying  his  own  action  to  himself.  "  As 
for  my  father's  wishes — I  promised  him  that  I  would  consider 
them,  and  I  have  considered  them  fully.  Having  regard  to  his 
natural  dislike  to  the  methods  by  which  his  father  made  the 
money,  and  his  own  school-boy  humiliations  in  being  reminded 
of  the  money-lending  and  the  other  notorious  things,  I  can  quite 
understand  his  wish  to  be  separated  from  the  past  altogether; 
taking  all  these  things  into  account,  I  can  quite  understand  wliy 
he  should  attribute  the  various  well-deserved  sliames  and  disas- 
ters of  his  family — which  were  clearly  due  to  their  own  mis- 
deeds— to  the  crooked  ways  of  those  who  built  up  the  fortiuie 
of  the  House, and  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation  theory.  But 
as  a  person  not  given  over  to  superstition,  and  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  being  taunted  with  things  now  pretty  well  forgotten, 
I  am  indisposed  to  accept  his  views,  and  I  am  disposed  to  take 
what  is  ready  to  be  placed  in  my  hands.  You  understand  me, 
Margaret  ?" 


276  nEYOND  THE  dreams  or  avauice 

"  It  is  impossible  to  iiiisundorstand  yon." 

"  Then — " 

"  You  have  not  waited  for  my  consent.  You  promised  you 
would  do  nothing  without  my  consent,  and  you  have  not  even 
taken  the  trouble  to  ask  a  release  of  tliat  promise  !" 

"  The  promise  was  nothing.  It  was  made  without  understand- 
ing the  facts  of  the  case.  But  I  do  want  your  approval  and  your 
agreement  with  me.  I  do  want  your  acknowledgment,  my  dear 
^largaret,  that  I  am  acting  wisely  and  rightly." 

"  You  have  condemned  your  wife  to  life-long  misery.  Oh, 
Lucian,  if  any  misery  of  my  own — only  my  own — would  make 
you  liappier — but — " 

"Misery!  Child!  I  don't  want  your  misery.  Margaret,  Mar- 
jorie — mine."  lie  cauglit  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  back.  "  I 
w<int  your  liappiness.  See — consider — we  are  poor.  Between 
us  we  have  no  more  than  four  hundred  a  year.  There  may  be 
other  claims  on  us  as  time  goes  on.  I  may  never  get  any  prac- 
tice at  all — most  likely  I  never  shall — I  am  not  of  the  kind  out 
of  which  successful  physicians  are  made.  And  I  don't  want 
practice.  I  want  to  work  all  my  life — research — work  in  a 
laboratory.  That  is  my  dream  for  myself.  For  you,  ease 
and  material  well  -  being  and  no  anxiety.  That  is  all  I  want. 
But  oh  !  the  superstitious  madness  and  folly  of  it !  That 
you — you — should  feel  such  median-al,  antiquated,  ridiculous 
scruples." 

*'  It  is  not  superstition.  What  but  misery  lias  followed  all 
the  members  of  the  family  from  generation  to  generation  ?  Lu- 
cian, shake  off  the  temptation.  It  is  not  yet  too  late.  You  to 
inherit  this  dreadful  pile  of  gold,  lieaped  up  and  gathered  by 
pandering  to  the  worst  vices  that  can  degrade  and  disgrace  man! 
It  was  made  by  the  ruin  of  gamblers  ;  by  the  profits  of  infamous 
dens,  where  wretched  men  and  lost  women  held  their  orgies!  by 
lending  money  to  profligate  young  men.  Oh,  Lucian,  how  can 
you,  an  honorable  man  in  an  lionorable  profession,  the  son  of 
an  lionorable  man— how  can  you,  I  ask,  think  for  one  moment 
of  claiming  this  vast  monument  of  shame  ?" 

"  I  have  considered  all  these  things,"  he  replied,  coldly;  "and 
I  have  told  you  that  the  use  to  which  I  design  this  wealth  will 
be  better,  far  better,  than  the  abandonment  of  it." 


ANOTHER  DREAM  OF  DEAD  MOTHERS  277 

"Yon  will  actually  acknovvlodge  yourself  to  be  this  man's 
grandson  ?" 

Lucian  laughed,  but  not  with  merriment.  "  I  care  nothing  at 
all  about  the  character  or  the  liistory  of  my  grandfather.  He 
lived  his  life — a  grovelling  kind  of  life  it  was — and  I  live  mine. 
As  for  the  people  he  wronged — they  are  dead  and  their  wrongs 
arc  buried  with  them.  Good  heavens !  if  we  were  to  remem- 
ber all  the  wrongs  committed  a  hundred  years  ago  !  And  as  for 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  I  own  to  you,  Margaret,  lirst,  that  1 
care  nothing  at  all  about  it ;  and,  secondly,  that  the  world  cares 
nothing  at  all  about  me.  The  world  is  not  greatly  curious  about 
any  man's  grandfather.  Very  often  the  world's  grandfather, 
like  mine,  was  of  the  reptile  order.  There  must  be  crocodiles 
and  alligators,  I  suppose.  As  soon  as  the  facts  are  announced, 
and  the  world  hears  that  the  case  is  decided,  and  that  the  great 
Burley  estates  have  been*  handed  over  to  the  legal  heir,  there 
will  be  a  day  or  two  of  talk  ;  the  illustrated  papers  will  have  my 
portrait,  with  a  brief  account  of  my  education  and  work;  inter- 
viewers will  flock  here  ;  there  will  be  a  speculative  paper  in  the 
Spectator  on  the  emotions  natural  to  the  sudden  possession  of 
great  wealth ;  a  good  many  stories  will  be  raked  up  about  Bur- 
ley's  Hell  and  Burlcy's  Dancing-Cribs,  and  the  old  orgies,  and 
the  rest  of  it.  AVhat  then  ?  Silence  will  follow  about  the  past ; 
everybody  will  know  the  worst  that  there  is  to  know ;  expec- 
tancy and  conjecture  will  begin  about  the  future.  What  is  the 
rich  man — the  very  rich  man — the  richest  man  in  all  the  world 
— going  to  do  with  his  wealth  ?  And  the  first  thing,  of  course, 
will  be  to  make  him  a  peer.  This  country  could  not  go  on  un- 
less the  richest  man  in  tlie  country  was  made  a  peer.  How 
should  you  like  to  be  a  countess?" 

"  Oh,  Lucian  !     You  can  even  jest  about  it !" 

"  Not  at  all.  And  then  I  shall  found  my  college  of  science. 
That  will  be  the  serious  work  of  my  life.  Come  " — he  changed 
his  tone  and  spoke  sharply,  even  roughly  — "  you  have  heard 
my  dream.  Let  us  fence  with  the  thing  no  longer.  It  is  not  a 
dream — it  is  a  settled  purpose.  I  see  before  me  a  plain  duty;  an 
opportunity  such  as  has  never  before  been  offered  to  any  living 
man.  \i  I  threw  away  such  a  chance,  it  would  be  a  blasphemy 
against  science  which  could  never  be  forgiven,  neither  in  this 


278  BEYOND    TFIR    DREAMS     OF     AVARICE 

world  nor  in  the  world  to  come.  There  are  other  rich  men  in 
the  world,  but  their  wealth  lies  in  lands,  houses,  shares,  and  in- 
vestments. If  they  attempted  to  realize  their  property  they 
would  lose  two-thirds  of  it.  I  shall  be  the  only  rich  man  in  the 
world  who  can  lay  his  hand  upon  all  these  millions  and  millions 
of  money  and  say,  '  This  is  mine,  to  spend,  to  invest,  to  use  as 
I  please.'  And  you  would  prevent  me  from  taking  this  magnifi- 
cent, this  unrivalled  chance  by  a  superstitious  terror,  or  by  some 
foolish  objection  as  to  the  way  in  which  the  money  was  made." 

Margaret  sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
It  was  no  use  to  say  anything. 

"  We  cannot  undo  the  past,  my  dear.  Let  us  be  reasonable. 
The  money  was  not  stolen;  if  it  were  it  could  be  restored.  The 
fortune  was  first  begun,  as  my  ancestor  has  artlessly  informed 
us,  by  robbing  the  till ;  it  was  afterwards  increased  by  the  sav- 
ings of  a  miser;  and  it  was  multiplied  twenty-fold  by  trading 
on  the  vices  of  the  town.  What  can  be  done  with  it  better  than 
to  devote  it  all  to  science  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Margaret,  "  we  must  not  touch  the  accursed  thing. 
Why  did  your  father  leave  it  ?" 

"  x\gain  remember  that  I  want  nothing  for  mj'sclf  except  to 
be  the  founder  of  this  great  college.  Margaret,  have  you  no 
feeling  for  science  ?  You  are  the  wife  of  a  man  of  science — do 
you  not  understand  something  of  what  might  be  done  by  such  a 
college  ?  Think.  Science  is  the  only  thing  in  all  the  world 
that  is  real  and  tangible  and  certain.  It  is  the  onlv  hope  of  the 
world." 

"  No.     It  is  not  the  sole  hope  of  the  world." 

"Yes;  the  only  hope.  You  heard  at  dinner  something  of 
this.  My  college  shall  be  the  chief  home  of  science,  the  chief 
servant  of  humanity,  the  teacher  of  that  highest  morality  under 
which  every  man  shall  feel  that  he  best  protects  himself  by  pro- 
tecting all  other  men.     That  is  my  case,  Margaret." 

She  sighed.     She  rose. 

"  Then  you  agree  with  me,  Margaret  ?  You  are  in  consent 
with  me  ?     You  release  me  from  that  promise  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then,  Margaret,  once  for  all,  I  release  myself." 

She  looked  him  full  in  tlie  face.    His  eyes  were  hard,  dogged, 


ANOTHER  DREAM  OF  DEAD  MOTHERS  279 

unrelenting — the  determined  eyes  of  his  ancestor,  Calvert  Bur- 
ley. 

"  The  accursed  thing  is  working  in  your  soul  already,  Lucian. 
It  has  brought  wretchedness,  somehow  or  other,  to  all  who  hope 
to  get  possession  of  it — to  Sir  John  ;  to  his  daughters  ;  to  Ella ; 
to  Lucinda  ;  to  that  poor  butterfly,  the  singer  ;  to  you.  As  for 
me,  I  am  one  of  the  wives ;  I  can  sit  and  wait  and  weep  with 
them.  Your  mind  is  quite  made  up ;  1  see  it  is ;  I  read  it  in 
your  eyes." 

"  It  is  quite  made  up,  Margaret.  There  is  no  more  to  say, 
except — just  at  present,  I  fear,  a  useless  thing  to  say — be  rea- 
sonable, and  trust  in  your  husband's  reason." 

"  I  must  go,  then.  I  must  think — I  must  find  out,  if  I  can, 
what  is  best  to  be  done." 

Margaret  turned  away  sadly  and  climbed  the  stairs. 

The  house  was  silent;  the  lights  were  out.  As  Margaret 
went  up  to  her  room  the  air  was  filled  with  whispers  —  they 
were  women's  voices — for  her  alone  to  hear.  They  said,  "You 
are  one  of  us;  soon  you  shall  be  one  with  us;  one  with  us — 
one  with  us ;  you  and — " 

An  hour  later  Lucian  came  up,  stepping  softly  lest  he  should 
awaken  his  wife.  He  turned  up  the  shaded  gas-jet  a  little,  and 
— where  was  Margaret  ?  The  tumbled  pillow,  the  blanket  thrown 
back,  showed  that  she  had  been  there.  Where  was  she  now? 
He  looked  round  the  room.  He  turned  up  the  light  higher. 
She  was  not  there.  Then  he  thought  of  the  drawing-room.  He 
opened  the  door.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  the  room  was  in 
black  darkness  ;  he  lit  a  candle.  The  portraits  all  stared  at  him 
curiously,  but  no  one  was  there.  He  returned  to  the  bedroom ; 
he  thought  she  might  be  in  Ella's  room.  He  stepped  softly  up- 
stairs;  he  would  be  able  to  see  the  light  under  the  door,  if 
there  were  any  light  burning  in  the  room.  He  would  hoar  their 
voices  if  they  were  talking.  No,  there  was  no  gleam  of  light; 
there  was  no  talking. 

Then,  while  he  stood  on  the  stair  in  doubt,  he  heard  Marga- 
ret's voice — she  was  talking  quite  softly,  but  as  to  lier  voice 
there  could  be  no  doubt,  and  the  voice  came  to  him  from  one  of 
the  garrets  above. 

Lucian  was  by  no  means  a  superstitious  man,  as  wc  Lave 


280  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

seen.  He  regarded  not  omens,  lucky  or  unlucky  days,  warn- 
ings or  encouragements ;  he  would  have  spent  a  night  alone  in  a 
haunted  house  with  unshaken  nerves  and  the  firmest  resolution 
not  to  hear  nor  to  sec  anything ;  he  had  an  unbounded  con- 
tempt for  all  the  ghosts  of  Borderland.  These  ghosts  know  the 
scientific  attitude ;  they  recognize  the  folly  of  showing  them- 
selves to  a  man  who  refuses  to  see  them ;  therefore,  when  the 
man  of  science  steps  in  the  ghost  steps  out.  They  only  show 
themselves  to  the  fearful.  No  argument,  therefore,  against  the 
existence  of  ghosts  can  be  founded  on  the  fact  that  the  scien- 
tific man  never  sees  any.  lie  never  to  ill !  And  now  you  know 
the  reason. 

Lucian  was,  then,  the  least  credulous  of  men.  But  to  hear 
your  wife's  voice  in  the  dead  of  night,  talking  to  non-existent 
persons  in  an  empty  garret,  is  a  shock  to  the  most  profoundly 
scientific  of  men.  Archimedes  himself.  Bacon,  Darwin,  Hux- 
ley, would  be  shaken  by  such  a  singular  experience.  Lucian 
felt  his  heart  beat  and  his  pulse  quicken  as  he  ran  up  the  top- 
most stair.     What  did  it  mean  ? 

The  door  of  the  front  garret  was  wide  open  ;  a  flood  of  moon- 
light fell  through  the  windows,  partly  on  the  floor  and  partly 
on  the  dismantled  bed  and  partly  on  Margaret  herself,  sitting 
on  the  mattress.  A  strange,  weird  picture  she  made,  bathed  in 
the  moonlight,  clad  in  a  white  dressing-gown,  her  bare  feet  on 
the  floor,  her  long  fair  hair  hanging  over  her  shoulders,  her  eyes 
wide  open,  her  hands  moving  in  harmony  with  her  words,  her 
head  carried  as  one  who  is  eagerly  listening  and  eagerly  talk- 
ing; her  whole  attitude  that  of  one  who  takes  part  in  a  conver- 
sation on  some  subject  of  importance  and  interest.  She  was,  in 
fact,  in  the  midst  of  the  wives  and  mothers;  she  was  in  her 
dream.  Was  this,  then,  a  nightly  practice  with  her,  to  steal 
away,  and  thus,  sleep-walking,  enact  the  dream  ?  Lucian  under- 
stood. He  knew  of  this  vision  or  this  dream.  To  look  on  filled 
him  with  admiration  of  the  case ;  it  was  a  psychological  study  ; 
the  persistence  of  the  dream  was  curious;  in  order  to  destroy 
it,  his  wife  would  probably  require  a  change  of  thought  and 
place  and  talk;  this  business  of  the  succession  once  settled,  he 
would  take  her  away  himself.  As  for  any  change  in  his  own 
purpose,  that  was,  of  course,  absurd. 


ANOTHER  DREAM  OF  DEAD  MOTHERS  281 

He  waited  at  the  door — he  knew  she  would  not  see  him  ;  he 
■watched  and  Hstencd. 

"  Yes — yes,"  she  cried.  "  Oh  !  all  you  prophesied  has  come 
to  pass.  Even  the  desire  for  the  inheritance — nothing  but  that 
— has  brought  shame  and  disappointment  upon  all,  and  now  the 
time  has  come  for  me  to  feel  what  you  have  felt  and  to  suffer 
what  you  have  suffered — " 

She  paused  and  listened  as  if  to  one  who  stood  at  her  right. 
Even  Lucian  could  not  avoid  the  wish  that  he  also  could  see  this 
company. 

"  The  time  has  come  at  last.  The  temptation  was  too  great. 
The  desire  has  become  a  madness.  He  too  will  become  openly 
your  grandson  and  your  great-grandson.  He  is  exactly  like  your 
husband,  madam,  the  Calvert  Burley  who  brought  upon  us  all 
this  misery  and  the  beginning  of  this  wealth — perhaps  he  will 
end  like  him,  in  stony  hardness  of  heart — and  he  is  like  your 
husband,"  She  turned  to  another  person.  Lucian  almost 
thought  he  saw  that  other  person,  with  such  reality  did  she  turn 
from  one  to  the  other.  But  no — nothing  was  there  but  the 
moonlight,  falling  on  his  sleeping  and  dreaming  wife.  "  He  is 
like  your  husband,  too,  like  the  miser  who  drove  all  your  chil- 
dren from  the  house,  one  after  the  other,  so  that  some  starved 
and  some  committed  wicked  things.  Perhaps  Lucian  will  in 
time  become  a  miser.  I  think  that  already  he  begins  to  love 
money.  He  dreams  all  day  about  the  money  ;  he  cannot  think 
of  his  work — he  will  do  no  more  scientific  work.  His  gold  will 
presently  weigh  him  down  and  crush  him." 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  but  she  turned  her  face 
from  one  to  the  other  as  if  she  listened  to  what  each  in  turn 
was  saying. 

"  You  bring  me  no  comfort.  You  give  me  no  advice.  It 
doesn't  help  me  to  hear  from  each  of  you,  one  after  the  other, 
the  sadness  of  your  lives.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Oh  !  tell  me, 
what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

Again  there  was  silence.  Lucian  shivered,  for — against  his 
reason — he  imagined  he  heard  voices  in  reply. 

"No — no — no!"  Margaret  clasped  her  hands.  "I  will  do 
anything  for  him — anything  in  the  world  except  one  thing.  H 
it  were  for  myself  only,  he  should  have  my  company  in  all  tlie 


232  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

misery  which  he  will  bring  upon  himself.  But  mine  alone.  He 
shall  not  bring  misery  upon — "  Here  she  was  silent,  while 
the  others  interrupted  her,  speaking  apparently  all  together. 

"  It  had  been  better,"  Margaret  went  on,  "  if  you  had  left 
your  husbands  before  your  children  were  born.  And  that  is 
the  sum  of  what  you  say.  You  all  think  so.  Better — better 
for  you — better  for  the  world  had  you  left  your  husbands  be- 
fore your  babies  were  born." 

She  paused.  Was  it  the  murmur  of  assent  that  Lucian 
heard  ? 

Then  she  rose  and  looked  around.  "It  is  very  good  of 
you,"  she  said.  "We  will  cry  together  often  in  the  time  to 
come.  Only  a  day  or  two  more  and  I  shall  be  one  with  you — 
to  share  in  all  your  sufferings,  and  to  feel  all  that  you  have 
felt.  Good-night— good-night.  Oh,  sad-faced  mothers,  good- 
night !" 

The  tears  rolled  from  her  cheeks,  her  voice  broke,  and  then 
— a  strange  action  when  one  of  the  two  who  embrace  is  im- 
palpable and  invisible  —  she  raised  her  arms  and  made  as  if 
she  threw  them  round  the  neck  of  one  person  after  another  and 
as  if  she  kissed  the  cheek  of  one  after  the  other.  Then  she 
looked  round  her— she  was  alone— her  visitors  were  gone. 
She  pulled  open  the  chest  of  drawers  and  took  out  some  of 
the  things  that  lay  there,  things  Lucian  knew  appertaining  to 
infants.  She  unfolded  them  and  held  them  up  one  by  one  in 
the  moonlight.  Then  she  carefully  folded  and  laid  them  back 
again. 

And  then,  still  with  eyes  that  looked  straight  before  her  and 
saw  nothing,  she  walked  past  Lucian,  and  slowly,  without  touch- 
ing the  stair-rail,  went  down-stairs,  her  husband  following  her. 
She  did  not  hear  his  step ;  she  walked  on  quite  unconscious. 
She  stopped  at  her  bedroom  door,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
went  in  and  lay  down  upon  the  bed. 

Lucian  bent  over  her.  She  was  fast  asleep.  Her  eyes  were 
closed.     She  was  peacefully  sleeping. 

lie  lay  awake  watching  her.  Siie  slept  on,  her  breathing 
calm,  undisturbed  by  any  more  dreams — exhausted.  In  the 
morning  she  would  be  recovered,  she  would  be  reasonable. 
Of  course  she  would  see  the  thing,  as  she  always  had  before, 


ANOTHER  DREAM  OF  DEAD  MOTHERS  283 

with  his  eyes — from  his  point  of  view.  She  had  always  been 
that  "kind  of  wife  who  submits  to  everything  which  would 
make  her  husband  happy.     Presently  he  too  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning  she  was  gone.  Not  into  the 
garret  this  time,  but  in  a  quite  prosaic  manner  gone — down  to 
breakfast. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

FAREWELL  ! 

Lucian's  lieart  was  softened.  Remembering  that  acted  dream 
— that  strange  drama  of  one  visible  performer  with  a  whole 
company,  invisible  and  inaudible — his  heart  became  very  soft. 
All  the  irritation  caused  by  his  wife's  contumacy  vanished  in 
thinking  of  that  sleep-walking.  Clearly,  he  must  take  or  send 
her  away — to  Freshwater,  say,  or  Hastings,  for  a  change.  She 
had  been  dwelling  too  much  on  this  foolish  superstition  ;  as 
soon  as  she  understood  the  foolish  unreason  of  the  thing  she 
would  shake  off  her  fears.  Superstition,  however,  as  this  pliy- 
sician  very  well  knew,  is  a  hard  thing  to  kill.  Nothing  but 
the  most  resolute  defiance  of  the  bogie  is  effective.  There 
,  liave  been  found  men  strong  enough  to  beat  down  and  destroy 
with  hammers  Odin,  Dago,  Kaloo,  and  the  most  venerable  old 
idols;  are  there  found  men  or  women  strong  enough  in  these 
days  to  break  looking-glasses,  begin  new  work  on  a  Friday,  sit 
down  thirteen  to  a  table,  or  cease  to  believe  that  money  gotten 
in  certain  ways  must  carry  a  curse  with  it? 

Lucian  considered  these  things  with  himself  while  he  dressed. 

He  became  charitable,  even;  there  was,  after  all,  something 
to  be  said  for  the  superstition,  especially  by  those  who  did  not 
clearly  perceive  that  all  the  disasters  wliich  fell  upon  the  House 
were  caused  by  wrong-doing.  Certainly  there  were  many  hor- 
rid things  in  the  family  record  ;  they  had  been  presented  to 
Margaret  en  bloc  and  suddenly ;  and,  with  them,  his  father's 
prejudices  as  regards  the  hereditary  curse ;  and,  really,  if  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  the  like  of  these  disasters  had  seldom,  if 
ever,  been  recorded  in  any  middle-class  family.  In  this  middle 
way  one  is  generally  supposed  to  be  tolerably  safe.  Down  be- 
low, an  appearance  at  the  Criminal  Court,  with  a  pew  in  the 


FAREWELL  !  285 

very  front — a  stall  in  the  front  row — is  common.  Up  above 
there  are  family  histories,  including  losses  at  the  gaming-tables, 
plunging  on  the  turf,  duels  over  ladies  of  the  ballet,  revelations 
in  the  Divorce  Courts,  and  other  scandals.  Either  up  above  or 
down  below,  such  a  family  history  as  that  of  the  Barleys,  one 
supposes,  might  be  equalled  or  surpassed.  Not  in  the  middle 
class,  where  there  still  lingers,  we  have  been  taught  to  believe, 
some  regard  for  character. 

Lucian's  softening  of  heart  did  not  include  the  least  weaken- 
ing of  purpose  ;  he  was  going  to  carry  out  that  purpose — with 
or  without  his  wife's  consent.  ]5ut  of  course  she  would  con- 
sent. He  never  remembered  any  occasion,  great  or  small,  on 
whicli  his  wish  was  not  her  law.  Naturally  he  supposed  that 
his  wish  would  under  all  circumstances  always  remain  her  law. 
Therefore  he  dressed  and  went  down-stairs  in  a  perfectly  cheer- 
ful frame  of  mind.  He  was  late;  he  had  overslept  himself;  the 
breakfast  of  the  others  was  finished  *,  Margaret  was  alone  wait- 
ing for  him. 

Either  by  accident  or  design  a  chair  stood  before  the  fire, 
and  between  herself  and  her  husband.  Lucian  did  not  observe 
that  she  was  pale,  except  for  a  red  spot  on  her  cheek,  and  that 
she  was  trembling  with  some  hidden  excitement.  He  was  only 
thinking  of  himself  and  his  own  magnanimity. 

He  stepped  in,  holding  out  both  hands. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  am  shamefully  late.  You  ought  to 
have  wakened  me." 

"  Will  you  take  your  breakfast,  or  will  you  talk  with  me 
first  ?     I  have  a  little  to  say  ;  it  will  not  take  long." 

"Talk  away,  dear" — he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  hot-water  dish 
and  observed  that  there  were  kidneys — "  go  on  talking,  dear. 
I  will  take  breakfast  the  while."  He  sat  down,  cut  bread, 
poured  out  tea,  and  took  a  kidney.  "  How  did  you  sleep,  ray 
dear  ?" 

"  As  usual.     I  always  sleep  well." 

"  A  dreamless,  peaceful  sleep  ?" 

"I  have  one  dream  always.  That  is,  hitherto  I  have  had  one 
di'eam.     That  will  be  changed  now." 

"  What  is  the  dream,  dear?" 

"  It  doesn't  matter.     Nothing  matters  any  more." 


286  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

Soiiietliing — a  little  break — in  her  voice  struck  him.  He 
looked  up,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  tried  to  take  her  hand.  She 
drew  it  away.  He  stooped  to  kiss  her  —  she  repelled  him 
roughly. 

"  iYo,"  she  said,  with  decision,  "  that  is  ended." 

"  What  is  ended  ?" 

She  turned  upon  him  a  face  so  resolute,  so  stern  and  hard, 
so  utterly  changed  from  the  fair  face  of  smiles  and  love  and 
submission  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  that  he  was  amazed. 
He  did  not  recognize  his  wife.  For  a  while  he  could  not  speak. 
Then  his  inasterfulness  returned. 

He  laughed.  "  What  has  got  into  your  head  now,  Margaret  ? 
I  don't  know  you  this  morning." 

"You  forget  what  I  told  you  last  night.  Yet  I  thought  I 
made  my  meaning  plain." 

"  You  talked  considerable  nonsense  last  niglit,  and  I  had  to 
let  you  understand — more  plainly  than  was  pleasant — that  a 
woman's  superstition  must  not  stand  in  the  way  of  the  world's 
interests." 

"  I  told  you  that  I  would  face  any  miseries  that  you  might 
bring  upon  our  heads  if  I  were  sharing  them  with  you  alone. 
But—" 

"Well?"  for  here  she  stopped. 

"  I  will  not  bring  these  miseries  upon  another.  My  child 
shall  not  inherit  the  curse  of  those  millions." 

"  What?"  he  cried.    "Your  child?     Your  child,  Margaret?" 

"Did  you  not  understand?  Well,  what  your  father  did 
when  he  was  grown  up,  I  shall  do  before  that  child  is  born.  I 
shall  go  away.     The  child  shall  never  know  its  own  people." 

"  Margaret,  you  do  not  mean  this.     Your  child  ?  your  child  ?" 

"  I  mean  it  most  solemnly  and  seriously.  You  have  chosen 
your  part — you  have  sent  in  your  claim.  It  must  be  granted. 
I  go  away  before  it  is  granted,  because  I  will  not,  for  one  single 
hour,  be  a  sharer  in  this  wicked  wealth." 

"You  will  leave  me,  Margaret?  But  this  —  this  —  your 
child  ?" 

"  I  am  going  away  this  morning,  immediately.  I  have  told 
your  cousins,  Lucinda  and  Ella.     They  will  go  with  me." 

"You  will  leave  me?"     He  hardly  understood  the  meaning 


FAREWELL  !  387 

of  the  words.  And  this  was  the  girl  who  had  seemed  to  have 
no  life  or  joy  except  in  doing  things  that  would  bring  pleasure 
to  him. 

"  It  is  too  late,  I  suppose,"  Margaret  went  on,  coldly,  "  to  say 
anything  more.  You  may,  however,  still  keep  me  if  you  will 
agree  to  transfer  your  rights  in  this  estate  to  the  Treasury — or 
anybody — so  that  you  can  never — you  or  yours — have  the  least 
claim  upon  it,  or  upon  any  part  of  it." 

"  Never."  His  face  became  as  the  nether  millstone.  "  What 
is  mine  I  will  take." 

"  Then,  Lucian,  I  go." 

"  Stop — stop  a  moment.  Your  own  people — your  mother  and 
sister — what  will  you  tell  them  ?" 

"The  truth.  If  they  disapprove,  which  is  very  possible,  I 
shall  go  my  own  way." 

"  But  tell  me  again.     Your  child — your  child — my  child — " 

"  I  will  never  consent  to  join  that  wretched  company  of  wives 
and  mothers  who  are  waiting  for  me  up-stairs." 

"  Superstition  !  Come,  Margaret,  I  will  take  you  out  of  this 
house.  It  is  too  strange  a  place,  too  ghostly  for  a  young  wife 
with  few  friends.  We  did  wrong  in  coming  here.  Come — you 
will  forget,  in  new  and  brighter  places,  this  company  of  wretched 
wives  and  mothers  —  the  people  who  come  to  you  in  your 
dreams.  And,  my  dear  —  you  have  told  me — you  will  have 
new  hopes." 

"Therefore  I  must  leave  you,  or  my  hopes  will  turn  to  ter- 
rors. Oh  1  Lucian,  when  you  first  heard  of  this  shameful  fam- 
ily you  shrank  with  horror  at  the  thought  of  claiming  what 
you  now  call  your  own.  Little  by  little  you  accustomed  your- 
self to  thinking  of  it  till  the  thing  became  possible.  Then  it 
became  attractive.  Then  it  overpowered  you.  You  have  been 
tempted,  and  you  have  fallen.  Yes — fallen.  You  are  not  the 
man  I  loved — your  mind  has  gone  down  to  a  lower  level — you 
no  longer  think  of  your  profession  and  your  own  work ;  you 
think  of  the  great  power  you  are  going  to  wield,  and  the  great 
man  you  are  going  to  be,  by  means  of  the  vast  fortune  you 
have  inherited  —  a  fortune  made  out  of  men's  vices  by  the 
coldest  and  most  heartless  villain  that  ever  existed.  This 
loathsome  mass  of  ill-gotten  gold  will  bring  ruin  and  destruction 


288  HEVONU  THE  UUEAMS  OF  AVARICE 

upon  your  head,  upon  mine,  and  upon  the  child  unborn  unless 
I  escape  and  flee — anywhere — anywhere  away  from  this  place. 
It  is  like  being  in  a  doomed  city  before  the  flames  of  Heaven 
descend  upon  it  and  destroy  the  city  and  the  people  in  it. 
That  is  all  I  have  to  say,  Lucian." 

Without  more  words  she  left  him  alone. 

lie  did  not  follow  her.  He  stood  still,  thinking.  Presently 
— the  rebellion  of  a  wife  so  submissive  was  inexplicable — his 
obstinacy  returned. 

"  Wonderful  is  the  power  of  superstition,"  he  murmured. 
*'  She  will  come  back.  1  will  give  her  a  day  or  two.  Then  she 
will  come  back,  and  I  will  make  more  concessions.  Poor 
Margaret !  As  if  I  were  going  to  give  way  to  a  woman's  super- 
stitious fad?  Great  heavens!  To  give  up  millions  because 
the  old  man  was  a  money-lender  !  ^^'hy  shouldn't  he  be  a 
money-lender?  She  will  come  back,  and" — he  laughed — "if 
she  is  right  we  must  make  suitable  provision  for  the  heir." 

He  sat  down  and  took  breakfast,  his  interest  in  the  meal  in 
no  way  diminished  by  the  recent  conversation. 

After  breakfast  he  should  have  gone  to  the  hospital,  but  he 
did  not.  He  went  into  his  study,  and  sat  down  before  some 
calculations  as  to  the  endowment  of  his  students  in  the  various 
branches  of  his  college  of  science  —  a  college  which  seemed 
about  to  cover  half  a  county  in  extent.  But  what  cannot  be  done 
with  twelve  millions  of  money  ?  This  morning,  however,  the 
figures  seemed  to  run  about  of  their  own  accord ;  they  wouldn't 
stand  still  to  be  added  up.  And  he  kept  listening.  There 
were  feet  overhead,  and  the  bumping  of  boxes.  Margaret  was 
packing  up ;  she  meant  it,  then. 

Then  the  young  husband,  still  the  lover,  experienced  a  pain 
such  as  he  had  never  before  thought  possible.  For  he  was 
drawn  two  ways,  by  two  ropes  —  two  forces  —  two  invisible 
arms.  One  arm  pulled  him  towards  the  door,  while  a  voice  in- 
side his  brain  —  it  was  the  voice  of  his  father  —  cried  aloud: 
"  Fool !  Madman  !  Go  to  your  wife  and  stop  her.  Give  her 
what  she  asks.  Stop  her  before  a  worse  thing  happens  to  you." 
And  the  other  arm  held  him  in  his  chair,  while  another  voice 
inside  him  whispered:  "Don't  give  up  the  money.  Think  of 
the  power!     Think  of  the  position!     Millions  upon  millions! 


FAREWELL  !  289 

The  richest  man — the  greatest  man — the  most  beneficent  man 
in  the  whole  country  !" 

The  latter  force  prevailed.     Lucian  sat  still. 

Presently  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Ella,  dressed 
to  go  out.     She  had  been  crying,  for  her  eyes  were  red. 

"  Cousin  Lucian,"  she  said,  "  I've  come  to  say  good-bye." 

"  If  you  must  go,  Ella.  I  suppose  that  Margaret  has  told 
you-" 

"Yes  —  she  has  told  us — I'm  vurry  sorry"  —  she  was  so 
moved  that  she  forgot  the  London  fashion  which  she  had  re- 
cently acquired,  and  called  it  "  vurry  " — "  I'm  vurry  sorry  in- 
deed— I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am." 

"  Indeed,  Ella,  you  cannot  be  so  sorry  as  I  am — not  only  to 
lose  you,' but  also — •     If  you  could  bring  Margaret  to  reason," 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Margaret  is  always  reasonable — and 
you  are  wrong — oh,  so  wrong  !"  Slic  sat  down  and  began  in  her 
frank  and  direct  way  :  "  You  are  horribly  wrong,  Lucian.  Don't 
tell  rae  you  want  the  money  for  your  scientific  college.  So  did  I. 
But  it  was  all  rubbish.  I  wanted  it  for  vainglory.  The  Lord 
wouldn't  let  me  have  it.  He  wouldn't  let  a  simple  girl  like  rae, 
ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  get  the  chance  of  doing 
mischief  with  that  money.  And  what  a  relief  it  is  to  me,  now, 
to  think  that  I  have  done  with  this  dreadful  great  fortune — 
and  forever!  Don't  call  me  a  hypocrite,  Lucian.  I  do  really 
feel  that  it  would  be  too  much  for  my  strength — I  should  have 
been  a  lost  soul.  And  it  will  be  too  much  for  you.  Don't  de- 
lude yourself;  already  I  see  a  change  in  you.  The  weight  of 
it  will  drag  you  down.  Already  you  think  all  day  long  about 
your  money  instead  of  your  work.  But  there  !  It's  no  use 
talking.  If  you  won't  listen  to  Margaret,  you  won't  listen  to 
me,  and  you  wouldn't  listen  to  the  angel  Gabriel." 

He  remained  silent. 

"  Then  good-bye.  Aunt  Luciuda  is  crying  outside.  When 
we  get  a  lodging  I  will  let  you  know,  in  case  of  repentance. 
It's  always  possible.  The  man  must  be  far  gone  indeed  when 
a  door  isn't  left  open  for  him  to  escape.     Good-bye,  then." 

He  took  her  hand  coldly  ;  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes ;  she 
ran  out  of  the  room,  and  he  heard  her  sobbing  as  she  banged 
the  door — not  with  temper,  hut  with  grief. 


290  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

When  the  wheels  of  the  cab  turned  the  corner  of  Great  Col- 
lege Street,  Lucian  rose,  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  forth  to  his 
morning's  work  at  the  hospital. 

"AVhat's  the  matter  with  Dr.  Calvert?"  asked  Nurse  Agatha 
of  Sister  Anne. 

"What  has  been  the  matter  with  him  for  ever  so  long?"  re- 
plied Sister  Anne  to  Nurse  Agatha. 

"  It's  since  his  marriage,"  said  Nurse  Agatha,  who  was  young 
and  good-looking,  and  took  an  interest  in  holy  wedlock.  "  Yet 
they  say  his  wife  is  charming," 

Sister  Anne  tossed  her  head.  "  They  say  !  What  do  they 
know  ?  He  is  always  distrait,  whatever  the  cause.  As  for  the 
patients,  he  doesn't  seem  to  care  any  more  what  becomes  of 
them." 

"Can  any  one  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  Calvert?"  It 
was  the  editor  of  the  Scaipcl  who  spoke,  and  it  was  at  the  club 
that  he  said  it.  "  I  ran  against  him  just  now — he  was  passing 
without  noticing  me ;  I  stopped  him  and  asked  about  a  paper 
he  promised  me.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  me  and  the 
paper  and  everything.  Very  odd.  Must  have  had  some  kind 
of  blow." 

"  Never  the  same  man  since  his  marriage,"  said  another  ;  "  yet 
they  say — " 

"  Hang  what  they  say  !     We  want  our  man  back  again." 

This  morning,  especially,  Lucian  acknowledged  to  himself  that 
he  could  bring  his  attention  to  bear  upon  nothing.  To  be  on 
the  point  of  stepping  straight  out  of  poverty,  or,  at  least,  slender 
means,  into  the  possession  of  millions — many  millions — that 
alone  is  enough  to  exclude  from  the  strongest  mind  any  other 
subject  whatever.  When  one  adds  that  the  man  had  seen  his 
wife — the  wife  of  two  months — deliberately  leave  him,  it  is 
clear  that  there  was  material  for  profound  meditation. 

He  left  the  hospital  as  quickly  as  he  could,  conscious  that 
the  nurses  were  looking  at  him  and  wondering  about  him.  He 
went  into  the  street,  where  he  met  his  editor,  and  entirely  for- 
got who  the  man  was  and  what  had  been  promised  to  him. 


FAREWELL  !  291 

Then  he  made  his  way  to  St.  James's  Park,  and  paced  up  and 
down  tliat  lonely  southern  walk.  Here,  at  any  rate,  he  could 
think. 

For  a  scientific  man  his  case  was  lamentable.  To  one  who 
resolutely  believed  nothing  except  what  he  saw,  felt,  and  could 
experiment  upon,  the  case  was  almost  insulting.  For  those  two 
voices  within  him — actually  two  voices,  two  non-existent  voices 
within  the  brain  of  a  physician  and  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  So- 
ciety— were  continually  crying  out ;  the  one  that  called  him, 
over  and  over  again,  "  Fool !  madman  !  dolt !"  the  other  that  bade 
him  rejoice  over  the  great  wealth  that  he  had  acquired,  bidding 
him  gloat  over  it,  count  it,  plunge  his  hands  into  the  mountain 
of  gold,  bathe  in  it,  admire  the  yellow  glow  of  it,  consider  the 
power  of  it,  climb  to  the  top  of  it,  and  stand  there  a  monu- 
ment for  the  world  to  envy — the  great,  the  good,  the  illustrious, 
the  fortunate,  the  dispenser  of  good,  a  modern  savior  of  the 
world.  "  Now  am  I  a  god !"  said  the  rich  man  of  old — poor 
wretch  !  A  king,  he  was  too.  "  Now  I  am  like  Zeus  the 
Cloud-Compeller."  Zeus  heard  and  did  compel  the  clouds,  and, 
lo  !  the  lightning  fell  upon  that  man  who  was  so  like  a  god,  and 
he  lay  prone,  dead — all  his  divine  likeness  gone  out  of  him,  and 
his  wealth  piled  up  in  mockery  around  his  dead  body.  "  Fool ! 
madman  !  dolt !"  cried  continually  the  other  voice.  Both  voices 
together,  each  trying  to  outbawl  the  other. 

Then-  a  doubt  seized  him,  a  doubt  as  to  the  papers.  AVcre 
they,  after  all,  complete?    Was  there  no  flaw  in  them? 

lie  hurried  as  hard  as  he  could  walk  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Thank  Heaven  !  All  was  complete — Mr.  Nicholson  reassured 
him.  The  Treasury  would  certainly  make  as  little  delay  as 
possible ;  he  might  reckon  upon  possession  in  a  very  short 
time.  lie  would  then  be  able  to  sit  down,  ascertain  exactly 
what  he  possessed,  and  frame  for  himself  his  future  course. 

"  Frame  his  future  course."  These  were  the  lawyer's  words. 
"  Frame  his  future  course."  Why,  he  now  remembered  that 
he  had  not  laid  down  any  future  course  for  himself — none  at 
all.  He  was  going  to  found  his  college.  And  then  ?  Work  in 
it  all  his  life  ?  Perhaps.  But,  then,  there  would  be  all  this 
money.  He  would  want  a  house  to  correspond  with  his  in- 
come ;  there  would  be  the    manacfcmont  of   the    estates    with 


292  BEVOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

SO  vast  a  property  ;  and  there  would  be  the  interests  of  the 
child — the  child — the  child — oh  !  there  would  be  an  immense 
amount  of  things  to  be  looked  after.  Perhaps  he  would  not  be 
able  to  do  any  more  research  work. 

He  left  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  walked  home. 

Strange  !  The  echoes  had  returned  to  the  house — the  echoes 
which  he  found  when  he  visited  it  with  Margaret ;  the  echoes 
which  rang  from  side  to  side  up  the  staircase.  They  came 
back  when  Margaret  left.  Once  more  the  house  was  empty. 
For  a  while  there  had  been  love  in  it — youth  and  love  ;  youth  and 
love  and  laughter  and  the  music  of  woman's  voice.  Now  it  was 
empty  again  ;  it  was  as  empty  as  when  the  old,  old  man  sat  alone 
all  day  long  with  never  a  whisper  to  break  the  silence,  and  the 
echoes  ringing  like  funeral  bells  if  one  set  foot  within  the  hall 
or  upon  the  stairs. 

There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  house  ;  the  two  servants  be- 
low went  about  their  work  as  quiet  as  mice.  The  door  at  the 
top  of  the  kitchen  stairs  was  closed,  and  their  voices  could  not 
be  heard  above. 

Lucian  shivered  involuntarily.  Margaret,  he  thought,  would 
come  back.  She  could  not  live  without  him.  Meantime  the 
house  was  horribly  empty. 

He  hung  up  his  hat  and  went  into  his  study.  He  remem- 
bered his  meeting  with  the  editor;  there  was  that  paper  he 
had  promised.  He  found  the  pamphlet — a  light  and  poetical 
brochure  in  German  on  the  bacillus  of  some  obscure  disease — 
indolence,  I  think — and  began  to  read  where  he  had  left  off,  pen 
in  hand. 

After  half  an  hour  he  found  that  what  he  read  with  his  eyes 
was  producing  no  effect  of  any  kind  upon  his  brain — a  disease 
requiring  another  bacillus.  He  pushed  his  paper  from  him  as  a 
rustic  pushes  his  plate  from  him  when  lie  has  finished  dinner. 
Then  his  pen  began  of  its  own  accord  to  draw  figures — dazzling 
figures  connected  with  the  great  inheritance.  Thus:  £12,000,- 
000  for  principal — what  a  glorious  array  of  captive  naughts ! 
How  many  years  of  saving  and  success  went  for  each  oblong 
naught — each  golden  ellipse  !  At  only  3  per  cent.,  £360,000  a 
year  was  the  income  from  this  capital  sum. 

Or,  £30,000  a  month — something  like  a  monthly  check! 


FAREWELL  !  293 

Or,  £1000  a  day — counting  Sundays. 

Or,  £40  an  hour — sleeping  or  waking. 

Or,  15s.  a  minute — every  time  the  second-hand  goes  round. 

Suppose  he  were  just  to  leave  it  invested,  as  his  grandfather 
had  done,  and  to  live  on  a  small  fraction  of  it — just  to  see 
what  would  happen.  Well,  to  begin  with,  it  would  double  in 
twenty-three  years,  and  double  again  in  twenty-three  years  more. 
He  would  then  have  £44,000,000  sterling ;  he  would  then  be  a 
little  over  seventy.     Think  of  it!     Forty-four  millions  ! 

He  went  on  calculating,  estimating,  pleasing  himself — it  was 
a  new  sense — with  the  mere  imagination  (figures  are  the  most 
imaginative  things  possible  (of  these  great  possessions.  By 
the  time  he  had  learned  to  understand  a  little  the  peculiarities 
and  the  enjoyments  of  his  grandfather,  the  money-lender,  and 
his  great-grandfather,  the  miser,  he  no  longer  regarded  them 
with  shame  and  disgust.  As  Margaret  told  him,  he  was  changed 
indeed. 

When  he  turned  to  the  consideration  of  liis  college,  he  per- 
ceived for  the  first  time  that  the  sums  he  had  originally  pro- 
posed for  it  were  much  too  big.  It  would  only  defeat  his  own 
purpose — he  now  understood — to  make  it  so  rich.  Besides, 
there  were  other  things  which  had  to  be  done.  He  must  not 
surrender  all  his  power.  Little  by  little  ;  one  endowment  at  a 
time.  With  an  income  of  £360,000  a  year  one  can  do  an  enor- 
mous quantity  of  good.  With  such  an  income  one  is  a  demigod 
for  power  of  benevolent  endowments.  Perhaps  without  touch- 
ing the  principal  at  all  he  might  carry  out  all  his  designs.  Two 
years'  income — or  three,  at  least — would  be  an  ample  endow- 
ment for  a  college.  He  might  endow  it  with  a  million  sterling, 
which  means  an  income  of  £30,000 ;  many  colleges  of  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  are  not  endowed  with  so  much. 

And  so  on.  For  the  first  thought  of  the  very  rich  man  is 
how  he  can  make  himself  still  richer.  With  moderate  wealth — 
say,  the  possession  of  £100,000 — what  our  ancestors  feelingly 
called  a  p/wm — with  a  plum  in  our  pocket — a  ripe,  sweet,  fra- 
grant, delicately  colored  plum,  an  Orleans  plum,  or  an  egg  plum, 
with  its  dewy  bloom  upon  it — the  average  man  is  satisfied.  He 
can  sit  down  to  enjoyment ;  he  can  give  checks  in  charity,  and 
so  feel  good  all  over;  he  can  belong,  in  imagination,  to  Samaria 


294  BEYOND  THE  DKEAMS  OF  AVARICE 

and  die  comfortably,  relying  on  certain  texts.  When  the  plum 
is  a  million,  or  two  millions,  or  ten  millions,  one  wants  to  make 
it  more.  It  was  quite  natural  that  the  last  Burley  but  three 
should  become  a  miser,  and  equally  natural  that  the  last  but 
two  should  become  a  money-lender.  They  were  so  rich  that 
they  wanted  more.  And  if  you  ask  why  this  is  so,  you  are 
referred  to  the  German  philosopher,  who  diagnoses  the  diseases 
peculiar  to  wealth. 

Lucian  had  dinner  served  in  his  study.  He  reflected  with 
the  customary  satisfaction  of  the  rich  man  on  this  subject,  that 
his  household  expenses  would  now  become  very  modest;  he 
thought  that  he  might  comfortably  live  on  two  hundred  a  year — 
so  long  as  Margaret  stayed  away — but  that  would  not  be  long; 
he  would  then  have  £360,000,  less  £200  a  year,  for  his  income. 
With  this  he  could  carry  out  the  most  precious  designs — one 
year's  income,  perhaps,  would  do — and  save  the  rest.  Heaven  ! 
How  the  money  would  go  rolling  up  ! 

He  spent  the  evening  in  the  same  manner — over  his  figures. 
At  midnight  he  went  up-stairs. 

Even  the  room  awakened  no  memory  of  Margaret.  Only 
twelve  hours  or  so  since  she  went  away,  yet  he  had  already  for- 
gotten her.  A  young  wife  on  the  one  side,  twelve  millions  on 
the  other.  Of  course  he  had  forgotten  her.  His  brain  was 
full  of  the  millions.  If  he  had  remembered  her,  it  was  with 
a  little  feeling:  of  disgust.     She  would  cost  so  much. 

One  of  the  voices  was  silent.  The  other  dropped  with  a  mur- 
mur of  encouragement  and  congratulation :  "  Oh,  you  are  so 
rich  !  You  arc  so  powerful !  You  are  so  generous  !  And  you 
will  grow  richer — richer — richer  !  More  powerful — more  gen- 
erous !" 

Dives  sank  into  slumber,  careless  that  the  house  was  empty. 
So,  you  sec,  the  work  of  the  fortune  was  done.  Love  was 
driven  out,  and  the  loveless  man  felt  not  his  loss.  What  more 
dreadful  curse  could  have  fallen  upon  him? 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE    LAST    REMONSTRANCE 

The  next  day  Lucian  sent  out  letters  inviting  all  the  cousins 
to  meet  at  his  house  in  Great  College  Street,  on  business  con- 
nected with  the  estate.  He  proposed  at  this  meeting,  though 
he  did  not  state  his  intention  in  the  letters  of  invitation,  to 
make  an  announcement  of  his  own  position,  and  to  inform  them 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  recognized  as  the  sole  heir  by  the 
Treasury. 

The  first  to  arrive  was  Ella.  She,  however,  instead  of  going 
iip-stairs  to  the  drawing-room,  ventured  into  the  study,  where 
she  found  Lucian  at  his  table.  Before  him  were  papers  covered 
with  figures. 

"  You  are  going  to  proclaim  yourself,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 
"I  thought  to  plead  with  you  for  the  sake  of  your  wife;  but  I 
won't.  Your  face  is  harder  than  ever.  ^Vell,  we  say  in  Amer- 
ica, which  is  a  very  religious  country,  that  the  Lord  sometimes 
breaks  up  hearts  of  stone.     Perhaps  He  will  break  up  yours." 

Lucian  laughed  scornfully.  The  girl  placed  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  on  the  table  and  leaned  over  him.  "  You  laugh,"  she  said. 
"  You  will  not  always  laugh.  Oh,  Lucian !" — she  drew  her  slender 
figure  to  its  full  height,  which  was  not  much  ;  but  her  dark  eyes 
— the  Burley  eyes — flashed,  and  she  looked  tall,  as  every  wom- 
an does  who  is  deeply  moved.  "  Cousin  Lucian,"  she  burst  out, 
''  I  look  at  you  and  I  wonder.  I  think  of  you  and  I  wonder.  You 
are  a  young  man,  your  life  before  you."  What  graybeard  coun- 
sellor could  be  wiser  than  this  girl  ?  "  All  before  you,"  she  re- 
peated. "  You've  got  a  larger  brain  and  a  clearer  eye  than  most ; 
you  might  have  become  a  man  known  even  to  us — even  across 
the  Atlantic — known  to  us  ;  you  have  got  enough  money  to  live 
upon  ;  you  have  got  a  truly  lovely  wife,  whom  you  treat  with 


296  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

your  English  arrogant  condescension — American  women  won't 
be  treated  that  way  ;  and  you  tlirow  it  all  away — everything — 
name  and  fame,  gifts  and  talents  —  the  calling  to  which  the 
Lord  called  you  —  and  your  sweet  and  loving  wife  —  yon  ex- 
change these  tilings —  Oh,  good  gracious !  What  could  the 
Lord  give  you  more  precious  ?  What  is  there,  out  of  lieaven 
itself,  more  precious  ?  Nothing — nothing — nothing  !  You  have 
bartered  everything  away  for  a  senseless,  useless,  mischievous 
pile  of  papers  that  they  value  at  millions  of  dollars.  Your  life 
is  done — finished;  your  course  is  run,  because,  masterful  as  you 
are.  Cousin  Lucian,  without  sympathy  you  can  do  nothing,  and 
except  from  your  wife  you  will  get  no  sympathy.  A  common 
man,  a  small  -  brained  man,  might  do  such  a  tiling;  but  you — 
you — you — a  man  of  science — " 

"  It  is  because  I  am  a  man  of  science — "  Lucian  began. 

"  It  isn't.  Don't  deceive  yourself.  It  is  because  you  liave 
wickedly  received  into  your  mind  and  nursed  and  cherished  a 
devil  of  greed  and  lust  for  gold.  You  pretend  that  you  want 
the  money  for  science — to  make  tlie  world  move  faster.  You 
can't ;  no  man  can  make  the  world  go  faster.  When  tlie  world 
is  ready  the  man  is  sent — not  before.  You  are  sent  into  the 
world  to  be  an  oflScer  in  the  army — a  corporal  or  a  lieutenant 
at  most ;  and  you  want  to  make  yourself  commander-in-chief." 

"  I  think  I  hear  the  people  going  up-stairs,"  said  Lucian, 
feebly. 

"  Let  them  go  up-stairs !  I  mean  to  say  what  I  came  to  say. 
You  will  fail,  Lucian.  Your  fine  college  may  get  built — I  don't 
think  it  will,  because  you  will  grow  more  and  more  avaricious 
as  the  time  goes  on.  But  it  may ;  and  then — then  the  real  work 
will  go  on,  being  done  by  the  outsiders  who've  got  no  money. 
Get  your  men,  and  pay  them  for  research  ;  the  more  you  pay 
them  the  less  they  will  work.  But  I  have  thought  this  out.  It 
is  necessity  which  makes  men  work.  Nothing  great  has  ever 
ccme  from  a  rich  man — nothing,  and  nothing  ever  will.  Your 
college  is  no  better  than  mine,  Lucian  —  no  better  than  vanity 
and  self-conceit." 

"Thank  you,  Ella." 

"  Poor  Lucian  !  We  all  thought  so  much  of  you  ;  and  now, 
unless  that  break-up  comes  quick,  you  are  a  ruined  man.     Dives 


THE    LAST    REMONSTRANCE  297 

carCt  work — he  can't.  You  can't  make  a  man  more  useless  than 
by  making  him  rich.  Oh !  when  will  the  churches  recognize 
this?  Well" — she  sighed,  paused,  and  sat  down,  and  then  got 
up  again — "  I  have  nearly  done — I  have  nearly  said  what  was 
put  into  my  head  to  say.  You  have  been  tempted ;  you  have 
fallen ;  you  are  blinded,  so  that  you  cannot  see  the  sin  and  the 
shame  of  it.  You  are  deaf,  so  that  you  cannot  hear  the  warn- 
ings of  it ;  and  you  are  stupid,  so  that  you  cannot  understand 
how  much  happier  is  the  life  you  are  throwing  away  than  the 
life  you  desire.  It  is  the  way  of  all  temptation,"  added  this 
woman  of  vast  experience.  "Those  who  fall  are  blinded  and 
deafened  and  stupefied,  so  that  they  only  see  one  side  of  it — 
the  side  which  attracts,  and  not  all  the  other  sides  which 
threaten." 

"  Have  you  nearly  finished  ?" 

-"How  shall  a  rich  man  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven?" 
she  asked.  "  Oh  !  I  mean  what  ought  to  be  your  kingdom  and 
my  kingdom — not  the  kingdom  with  silver  spoons  and  a  car- 
riage in  it.  He  cannot,  Lucian.  You  have  thrown  away  the 
kingdom  of  heaven.  Oh  !  what  a  thing — what  a  thing  to  throw 
away  !  Margaret  thrown  away  with  it !  Oh,  what  a  thing  to 
throw  away  !     Even  the  kingdom  of  heaven  itself !" 

13* 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE 


The  cousins  were  already  assembled  when  Ella  entered  the 
drawing-room.  The  New  Zealand  branch,  consisting  of  Sir  John, 
the  Rev.  Herbert,  and  the  five  girls,  were  all  gathered  together 
at  one  of  the  windows.  Lady  Burleigh  was  not  present.  She 
was  one  of  those  philosophers  who  would  rather  begin  a  brand- 
new  family  than  be  connected  with  the  finest  old  family  possi- 
ble, if  the  connection  had  to  be  established  by  wading  back 
through  generations  of  mud  in  the  gutter.  Therefore,  she 
put  the  famous  genealogy  in  a  drawer,  being  persuaded,  in  her 
own  mind,  that  poverty,  and  nothing  else,  had  drawn  her  father- 
in-law,  as  it  had  drawn  her  own  father,  to  New  Zealand  as  an 
early  settler.  And  she  cared  nothing  about  the  Burlcys,  and 
felt  no  manner  of  interest  in  the  illustrious  progenitors,  and 
took  no  pride  even  in  John  of  Gaunt.  Therefore,  she  refused 
to  attend  at  this  family  gathering.  Their  branch  was  repre- 
sented, in  consequence,  by  seven  instead  of  eight,  and  out  of 
seven  six  came  full  of  anxiety,  and  even  terror.  For  the  House 
of  Burley  was  like  an  ancient  museum,  full  of  secrets,  any  of 
which  might  be  revealed  at  any  moment.  However,  they 
came  prepared— the  father  for  the  sake  of  the  daughters,  and 
the  daughters  for  the  sake  of  the  father— to  rally  round  the 
genealogy,  and  to  stand  firm  by  the  sugar  -  baker  if  anything 
should  be  said  concerning  Charles  the  convict. 

Sitting  by  the  fireside  was  the  old  woman,  Lucinda  Avery. 
But  it  was  afternoon,  and  the  chair  was  comfortable,  and  she 
had  fallen  fast  asleep.  "  Hush— sh !"  whispered  the  girls. 
"  Do  not  wake  her  up.     Let  the  poor  thing  rest." 

They  ran  to  shake  hands  with  Ella.  But  their  smiles  were 
anxious.    "  She  is  asleep,"  they  whispered. 


A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE  299 

"  Goodness  keep  her  asleep !"  was  the  prayer  tliat  Ella 
breathed. 

Clarence,  Avith  his  friend  and  legal  adviser,  stood  at  another 
window.  The  completed  claim  had  been  sent  in.  There  could 
be  no  dispute  upon  the  facts.  What  did  this  gathering  mean  ? 
The  assembled  company,  he  surmised,  were  cousins — claimants, 
like  himself.  But  they  were  not  descendants  of  the  second  son. 
"  It  means  compromise,"  his  partner  whispered.  *'  I  don't 
know  why  or  how  ;  but  that's  what  I  think  it  means.  We'll 
wait  a  bit,  Clary,  and  listen." 

They  all  waited  in  silent  expectancy  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes, when  Lucian  entered  the  room,  accompanied  by  an  elderly 
gentleman  bearing  papers. 

"  That's  Mr.  Nicholson,"  whispered  the  poet,  surprised. 
"  Firm  of  Nicholson,  Revett  &  Finch,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
Most  respectable  firm.  I  knew  them  when  I  was  in  my  articles. 
They  mean  compromise  ;  I'm  certain  of  it.  We  will  hear  what 
they  propose  ;  don't  let  us  accept  too  readily.  I  wonder  who 
Dr.  Calvert  is — 1  wish  I  knew." 

Mr.  Nicholson  drew  a  chair  to  the  table.  The  audience  all 
sat  down.     Lucian  stood  beside  his  lawyer. 

"  I  have  invited  you  here  this  afternoon,"  he  began,  "  be- 
cause you  are  all  interested,  as  actual  or  possible  claimants  to 
the  Burley  estates,  in  the  announcement  I  have  to  make.  A 
step  has  been  taken  by  the  person  most  concerned  in  the  mat- 
ter which  will,  I  fear,  cause  grievous  disappointment  to  some 
present.  But  it  is  better  that  you  should  learn  the  truth  in 
this  way  than  from  the  papers,  which  will  certainly  publish 
the  fact  as  soon  as  it  gets  abroad." 

"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  this,"  the  partner  whispered. 
"It's  a  bad  beginning."  He  rose  and  addressed  the  House. 
"  Before  we  go  any  further,"  he  said,  "  I  should  like  to  ask,  as 
Mr.  Clarence  Burghley's  legal  adviser — Mr.  Nicholson  may  per- 
haps remember  me  when  I  was  articled  to  his  neighbors" — Mr. 
Nicholson  bowed.  "  I  should  like  to  ask,  if  I  may — it  is  a 
very  simple  question — by  what  authority  Dr.  Calvert  calls  to- 
gether the  representatives  of  the  Burley  family,  what  locus 
standi  he  has  in  the  business,  and  what  right  he  has  to  inter- 
fere at  all." 


800  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

"It  is  a  perfectly  legitimate  question,"  Mr.  Nicholson  re- 
plied. "You  all  have  a  right  to  be  satisfied  on  this  point. 
Now,  if  you  will  let  us  go  on  our  own  way,  I  can  promise  that 
the  question  shall  bo  answered  in  two  or  three  minutes.  Will 
you,  please,  meanwhile  accept  my  assurance  that  Dr.  Calvert  has 
the  best  right  possible  to  call  you  together  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  the  partner  whispered — "  I  don't  like  it  at 
all." 

Sir  John  got  up,  looking  responsible  and  dignified. 

"  On  that  assurance,"  he  said,  "  I  think  we  may  safely  pro- 
ceed. But  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  we  are  here — although 
invited  by  Dr.  Calvert — on  what  may  be  considered  false  pre- 
tences, because  we  cannot  claim  the  estates,  or  any  portion  of 
them,  unless  the  whole  of  the  branch  represented  by  the  man 
commonly  called  the  Westminster  miser,  with  his  descendants, 
is  extinct ;  and  I  believe  that  some  present  are  his  grandchil- 
dren. My  connection  with  the  family  goes  back  to  a  brother 
of  the  Westminster  miser." 

The  girls  breathed  hard  and  looked  round  at  the  old  woman 
in  the  chair.  Thank  Heaven  !  she  was  still  asleep,  her  head 
comfortably  settled  down  upon  her  chest. 

"  I  understood.  Sir  John,  when  you  saw  me — "  Lucian  began. 

"  Yes ;  that  is  true.  It  then  seemed  likely — even  almost 
certain — from  a  remarkable  coincidence  of  names  and  dates, 
and  the  resemblance  of  my  children  and  myself  to  the  portraits 
in  that  room,  that  my  father  was  Charles  Calvert  Burley,  third 
son  of  the  Westminster  miser.  It  has  now  been  ascertained, 
however,  without  a  doubt,  that  we  are  descended  from  his 
uncle,  one  Joshua  Calvert  Burley.  His  son,  also  called  Charles, 
was  born  in  the  same  year  as  the  other  Charles,  who  appears — 
ahem ! — to  have  borne  an  indifferent  character ;  most  of  you 
know,  I  dare  say,  the  principal  incident  in  his  deplorable  career. 
In  losing  him  as  a  parent,  however,  we  lose  our  claim  to  this 
estate.  So  that  if  the  announcement  we  are  about  to  hear  refers 
to  the  succession,  we  are  only  interested  as  far-off  cousins. 
That  is  to  say,  we  are  not  claimants." 

"  I  think,"  said  Clarence,  "  that  we  ought  to  be  told  at  once 
what  ray  legal  adviser  asked — who  and  what  is  Dr.  Calvert.  If 
anybody  has  a  right  to  take  the  lead  in  matters  concerning  the 


A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE  301 

Burley  family,  it  is  myself,  the  grandson  of  the  second  son, 
Henry." 

"  You  shall  know,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Nicliolson.  "  Have  patience 
for  two  minutes.  The  announcement  that  will  be  made  will 
satisfy  you  in  every  particular." 

Sir  John  sat  wiping  his  forehead,  unable  to  repress  his 
anxiety.  The  girls  observed  with  satisfaction  that  the  old  lady 
was  still  asleep.  They  whispered  to  each  other  and  then  to 
their  father,  who  nodded  his  head  and  got  up  again. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  as  this  announcement  clearly  con- 
cerns the  succession,  we  had  better  withdraw.  To  stay  longer 
would  be  to  invade  the  confidences  of  a — a — a  closer  family 
circle." 

"  No,  Sir  John,"  said  Lucian,  "  please  do  not  go.  Nothing 
is  going  to  be  said  that  will  affect  you  at  all — nothing.  Your 
name  will  not  be  mentioned,  I  assure  you,  or  the  names  of  any 
one  connected  with  you."  Did  he  mean  anything?  Did  he 
know — this  terrible  and  mysterious  physician,  who  seemed  to 
know  the  whole  history  of  the  family  ?  "  Pray,  Sir  John,  oblige 
me  by  waiting  this  out." 

Sir  John  sat  down.  The  girls  looked  round  again  to  see  if 
the  old  lady  was  still  asleep. 

Lucian  continued. 

"  The  heirs  of  the  Barley  estates  would  be,  first,  the  descend- 
ants of  John  Burley's  brothers  and  sisters.  There  were  four 
brothers  and  one  sister.  I  will  show  you  who  these  descend- 
ants are,  beginning  with  the  youngest,  James — " 

"  My  grandfather,"  said  Ella,  as  calmly  as  if  she  had  the 
marriage  certificate  in  her  pocket,  but  with  a  red  spot  on  either 
cheek.  The  Burleigh  girls  lowered  their  eyes,  a  sign  of  sym- 
pathy as  well  as  of  knowledge. 

"  Yes,  your  grandfather.  James  became  an  attorney.  He 
emigrated  to  America,  and  settled  in  a  town  called  Tewks- 
bury." 

"Mass.,"  said  Ella. 

"  In  Massachusetts.     There  he  married — " 

"  No,"  Ella  interrupted,  "  he  did  not  marry  in  America." 

"  Then  he  married  here.  He  had  two  children — namely,  a 
son — whose  only  child,  Miss  Ella  Burley,  is  here  with  us — and  a 


302  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

daughter,  Lucinda,  unmarried,  wlio   is  now  in   England.     The 
ladies  came  over  to  claim  the  estates." 

"  We  are  no  longer  claimants,"  Ella  explained.  "  We  have 
not  been  able  to  find  the  register  of  my  grandfather's  marriage, 
and  without  that  we  have  no  case,  it  appears." 

"  You  will  find  in  a  few  moments  that  it  would  not  help  you." 

"  Clary,  I  don't  like  it,"  whispered  the  partner.  "  It  looks 
worse  and  worse.  He's  too  cool  and  methodical  by  half. 
There's  something  up  his  sleeve." 

"  The  next  son,  Charles,  came  to  grief.  I  believe  you  all  know 
what  became  of  him.  He  has  left  no  descendants  —  at  least, 
none  are  claimants.  We  then  come  to  the  daughter,  Lucinda, 
who,  like  her  brothers,  ran  away  from  home.  She  married  a 
certain  Frederick  Avery,  at  one  time  captain  in  an  infantry 
regiment.  The  man  appears  to  have  been  a  prodigal,  or  else  he 
was  unfortunate.  He  fell  into  debt,  and  ended  his  days  in  the 
Fleet  prison,  leaving  his  wife  absolutely  destitute.  Her  history 
is  sad  and  extremely  discreditable  to  the  memory  of  the  late 
John  Burley.  The  man  of  millions  refused  to  give  his  sister  a 
farthing,  or  to  render  her  any  assistance.  The  unfortunate 
woman  sank  lovver  and  lower  until,  with  her  daughter,  she 
made  a  wretched  livelihood  by  doing  the  roughest  and  most 
poorly  paid  kinds  of  needle-work.  We  found  this  lady's  only 
daughter,  now  herself  an  old  woman,  in  the  Alarylebone  Work- 
house. Her  case  is  quite  clearly  established  by  the  letters  and 
papers  which  she  has  preserved.  So  far,  therefore,  this  poor 
old  pauper,  ignorant  and  humble,  is  the  only  claimant  to  all 
these  millions.  Lucinda  Avery,  your  cousin,  is  sitting  with  us. 
She  seems  to  be  asleep,  and  does  not  know  even  that  we  are 
talking  of  her." 

A  shiver  and  a  rapid  drawing  of  the  breath  from  the  five  New 
Zealand  girls  followed  this  speech,  because  Lucinda  at  that 
moment  lifted  her  head,  straightened  her  back,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  looked  round.  Then  she  made  as  if  she  would  rise  and  her 
lips  parted,  and  the  girls  caught  each  other  by  the  hand  and 
blanched  with  terror. 

But  Lucian  motioned  her  to  sit  down,  and  the  old  woman 
obeyed ;  and  she  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  to  all  appearance 
went  to  sleep. 


A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE  303 

Lncian  continued  liis  story. 

"  Tlie  next  branch,"  he  continued,  "  is  that  of  Henry,  the 
second  son.  His  grandson,  Mr.  Clarence  Burghley,  is  here  to- 
day.    The  connection,  I  understand,  has  been  fully  made  out." 

"  Point  by  point — fully  established,"  said  the  partner. 

"  I  do  not  dispute  the  connection.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to 
acknowledge  that  our  cousin  is  the  undoubted  grandson  of 
'Henry  Calvert  Burghley." 

"  Our  cousin  ?"  asked  Clarence.     "  Your  cousin  ?" 

Mr.  Nicholson  raised  his  hand  as  one  who  prays  for  patience. 

"  I  don't  like  it — I  don't  like  the  look  of  things  at  all,"  mur- 
mured the  poet. 

Then  Lucian  went  on. 

"  This  connection  established,  there  remains,  therefore,  only 
Mr.  Clarence  Burghley  and  that  poor  old  lady  asleep  in  the 
chair." 

"  Don't  wake  her,"  murmured  all  the  girls. 

"  I  will  not.  Let  her  sleep  and  rest.  She  has  had  very  little 
rest  in  her  hard-worked  life.  Out  of  all  the  claims  which  might 
have  been  made,  there  are  only  two  which  can  be  considered. 
But  there  is  the  eldest  branch,  the  son  of  John  Burley  the 
money-lender  ;  and  since  the  announcement  about  to  be  made 
to  you  is  the  real  purpose  for  which  you  have  been  called  to- 
gether, I  will  ask  Mr.  Nicholson,  senior  partner  in  the  house  of 
Nicholson,  Revett  &  Finch,  to  make  that  announcement  for 
me." 

He  sat  down,  and  Mr.  Nicholson  rose.  "  Last  May,  five  days 
before  Mr.  John  Burley  died,  there  died  at  the  age  of  fifty-five 
my  life-long  friend,  my  old  school-fellow,  John  Calvert,  as  he 
was  known  to  the  world,  civil  engineer.  I  had  in  my  possession 
all  his  papers.  I  had  been  in  his  confidence  ever  since  the  day 
when — we  were  boys  at  the  time — he  refused  to  remain  with 
his  father  any  longer  and  ran  away  from  home.  He  had  noth- 
ing but  a  watch  and  chain  that  his  mother  had  given  him  with 
a  little  hoard  of  a  few  pounds,  which  she  placed  in  his  hands 
on  her  death-bed.  I  had,  I  say,  all  the  papers.  Those  which 
were  necessary  for  our  purposes  I  have  placed  in  the  hands  of 
the  Treasurj\  For  John  Calvert's  real  name  was  John  Calvert 
Burley,  and  this  gentleman  " — he  laid  his  hand  upon  Lucian's 


304  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

shoulder — "  is  the  only  son.     Therefore,  he  is  the  sole  heir  to 
the  whole  of  the  Burley  estates !" 

Ella  groaned  aloud,  thinking  of  Margaret.  Tip  to  the  last 
moment  she  hoped  that  he  would  not  do  it.  lie  had  done  it — 
he  had  sent  away  liis  wife. 

Sir  John  laughed  pleasantly.  "  I  congratulate  Dr.  Calvert,  or 
Dr.  Barley — whichever  you  may  prefer  to  be  called." 

"  We  must  all  rejoice,"  said  Herbert,  "that  the  right  man  has 
been  found.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  confess  that  1  have  had 
dreams — for  the  sake  of  the  Church.  But  it  is  ordered  other- 
wise." 

"Take  it  quiet,  Clary,"  whispered  the  partner — "take  it 
quiet." 

"  Sir,"  cried  Clarence,  with  flaming  cheek,  "  this  must  be 
proved.  I  shall  dispute  every  point  of  the  assertion.  It  shall 
be  proved  in  a  court  of  law." 

"The  Treasury,"  Mr.  Nicholson  said,  quietly,  "  have  admitted 
the  proofs.  The  rest  is  only  a  matter  of  necessary  delay.  Not 
only  is  Dr.  Calvert  the  heir,  but  he  is  the  acknowledged  heir. 
Of  course,  it  is  open  to  any  one  to  bring  an  action,  if  he  is  so 
minded  and  so  advised." 

"How  is  it,  I  should  like  to  know,  that  you  have  only  just 
found  out  the  fact  ?" 

"  Dr.  Calvert  has  known  the  fact  since  the  death  of  his  father. 
The  reasons  why  he  did  not  immediately  come  forward  are 
doubtless  satisfactory  to  himself." 

"That,  my  cousins,"  Lucian  concluded,  "is  all  that  I  have  to 
say.  I  am  myself  the  sole  heir.  Still,  if  any  of  you  think  that 
you  are  in  any  way  entitled  to  any  part  of  the  estate,  you  will 
advance  your  claim  in  the  proper  way.  Sir  John,  may  I  ask 
you  if  you  think  yourself — " 

"  No,  no,  certainly  not.    We  descend  from  the  higher  branch." 

Again  the  girls  looked  at  the  woman  who  slumbered.  No 
sleep  was  ever  more  opportune  or  more  gratefully  received. 

"  Very  well,  then.     Your  daughters.  Sir  John  ?" 

Tliey  all  shook  their  heads. 

"  Cousin  Ella,  I  look  to  you." 

"  Lucian,  I  would  not  touch  a  farthing,  even  if  I  had  my 
grandfather's  marriage  certificate  in  my  hand." 


A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE  305 

"  Then,  Mr.  Clarence  Burgliley,  what  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Let  mo  speak  for  him ;"  the  partner  rose,  and  spoke  with 
some  dignity,  "  My  friend  and  client,"  he  said,  "  is  naturally 
much  astonished — not  only  at  this  unexpected  news,  but  at  the 
treatment  he  has  received.  You  remember,  Dr.  Calvert,  that  he 
called  upon  you  ;  that  he  explained  who  he  was  and  why  he 
came.  You  received  him,  showed  him  these  portraits,  and  gave 
him  a  letter  which  is  very  valuable  in  completing  our  chain  of 
evidence.  You  did  not  tell  him,  as  you  should  have  done,  that 
you  were  yourself  the  grandson  and  heir.  You  allowed  him  to 
go  away,  his  brain  fired  with  the  thought  that  this  vast  inherit- 
ance would  be  his.  Can  any  one  wonder  that  the  anxiety  has 
prevented  him  from  doing  anything  at  all  ?  He  has  lost  not 
only  months  of  work,  but  has  suffered  detriment — great  injury 
— to  his  professional  reputation  as  an  actor  and  entertainer. 
Cruel  suspense,  anxious  nights,  laborious  research — for  months 
— and  all  caused  by  your  silence.  Dr.  Calvert.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, I  submit,  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Nicholson — a  gen- 
tleman of  the  highest  standing — that  compensation,  substan- 
tial compensation,  is  due  to  Mr.  Clarence  Burghley." 

"  Of  course  I  ought  to  be  compensated,"  Clarence  broke  in, 
savagely.  "  For  four  long  months  I  have  been  unable  to  think 
of  anything  else.  Who  kept  me  in  suspense  ?  You.  My 
mind  has  been  unsettled — through  you.  I  have  been  unable  to 
do  any  work — through  you.     I  say  that  compensation  is  due." 

"You  may  leave  your  case  in  Mr.  Nicholson's  hands,"  said 
Lucian,  coldly.  lie  looked  round  the  room.  "  My  cousins," 
he  said,  "  let  us  part,  if  we  can,  amicably.  There  are  the  por- 
traits of  your  ancestors.  If  you  wish,  I  will  present  to  each  the 
portrait  of  his  grandfather.  Sir  John,  behind  you  is  a  portrait 
of — of — it  is  said  to  be — your  great-grandfather  Joshua."  But 
he  knew  very  well  that  Joshua  had  died  at  the  age  of  two,  and 
that  this  was  some  other  cousin.  "  Will  you  accept  him  and 
take  him  away  ?" 

"Oh,"  cried  the  girls,  "that  will  be  delightful!"  They 
clapped  their  hands  with  simulated  joy — but  gently,  so  as  not  to 
awaken  the  family  historiographer.  But  their  eyes  rested  on 
the  portrait  of  Charles  the  convict,  Charles  of  Australia,  Charles 
the  early  settler,  the  handsome  Charles — so  like  their  brother 


306  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Herbert,  and  both  so  like  the  religious  maniac,  their  great-great- 
grandfather. 

Lucian  took  the  picture  from  its  nail  and  gave  it  to  Sir  John, 
who  placed  it  beside  his  chair. 

"  i  hear,"  Lucian  addressed  Herbert,  "  that  you  liave  pro- 
fessed a  desire  to  be  descended  from  a  criminal."  The  girls 
dropped  their  heads  and  blushed.  "  It  is  a  strange  taste  in 
ancestors — " 

"I  would  be  as  one  of  the  lowest  and  meanest  of  my  people," 
said  Herbert,  hotly. 

"  Quite  so.  But  your  sisters,  I  believe,  have  no  such  am- 
bition. However,  I  can  gratify  you  even  in  this  respect.  Here," 
he  pointed  to  the  man  who  was  transported  beyond  sea,  "  is 
your  grandfather's  first  cousin,  who  was  a  forger  and  a  convict. 
He  is,  therefore,  your  first  cousin  twice  removed.  You  can 
boast  about  this  noble  connection  among  your  people.  The 
more  they  can  drag  you  down  to  their  own  level  the  bet- 
ter they  will  be  pleased,  no  doubt.  If  you  are  not  satisfied,  I 
can  give  you  another  criminal  —  the  family  is,  happily,  rich 
in  malefactors.  The  man  wdiose  portrait  is  here  was  actu- 
ally hanged  at  Tyburn  Tree.  You  arc  connected  with  quite  a 
group  of  criminals.  It  ought  to  make  you  proud  and  hap- 
py." 

At  the  moment  Herbert  found  nothing  by  way  of  repartee 
or  proper  rejoinder.  An  hour  or  two  afterwards — a  thing  which 
often  happens  —  he  remembered  what,  as  a  faithful  assistant 
priest,  he  ought  to  have  said. 

Then  Lucian  turned  to  Ella, 

"  Would  you  like  the  portrait  of  your  grandfather,  Ella?" 

"No,  Cousin  Lucian.  Aunt  Lucinda  has  a  niiiiiature  of  him. 
I  am  quite  satisfied  with  his  American  face.  You  may  keep 
this." 

He  turned  to  Clarence.  "  And  you,"  he  asked  ;  "  would  you 
like  to  take  this  portrait  of  your  grandfather?" 

"  No,"  said  Clarence,  sullenly ;  "  I  only  wanted  to  use  the 
portrait  for  the  sake  of  the  connection.  It's  a  vile  daub,  and 
I've  got  his  picture  in  character.  Keep  it — if  you  like.  It's  no 
worse  as  a  painting  than  all  the  rest.  Keep  it.  The  thing  is 
only  fit  to  decorate  a  room  like  this." 


A    CONSEIL    DE    FAMILLE  307 

He  left  the  room  without  dignity  or  any  attempt  to  conceal 
the  crushing  nature  of  the  disappointment.  He  was  bent  under 
it — his  head  hung  down ;  he  was  pitiable  to  look  upon. 

His  partner  stayed  behind  to  speat  with  Mr.  Nicholson. 

"When  we  have  thought  a  little  about  this  business,"  he  said, 
"  perhaps  you  will  make  an  appointment.  We  ought  to  ask  for 
a  very  substantial  sum.  I  assure  you  that  Clarence  has  been 
absolutely  unable  to  do  anything  on  account  of  his  anxiety,  and 
this  blow  is  one  from  which  he  may  never  recover.  Think  of 
the  awful  blow  of  losing  this  vast  fortune." 

"Well,"  said  Sir  John,  "since  we  expect  nothing,  we  are  not 
disappointed.     Herbert,  are  you  going  my  way  ?" 

"  We  are  going  to  stay  a  few  minutes,"  said  the  girls.  They 
stayed  to  talk  with  Ella. 

Lucian  went  down-stairs  with  Mr.  Nicholson.  The  family 
council  was  concluded. 

"  Cousin,"  said  Lucy,  the  eldest — "  cousin  in  misfortune,  are 
you  going  back  to  America  ?" 

"  No,  we  cannot,  because  we  have  no  money  for  our  pas- 
sage, and  nothing  to  live  upon  when  we  get  there.  Margaret  is 
trying  to  get  me  something  to  do  in  England." 

"  Come  out  to  New  Zealand  with  us.  We  are  going  back 
very  soon  now — the  sooner  the  better.  We  are  the  richer  for 
our  visit  home  by — that  history  which  you  have  heard;  you 
are  the  richer  by  your  history.  Come  out  with  us.  We  will 
find  you  something  —  a  lover,  perhaps,  if  you  want  one  —  or  a 
place,  perhaps — you  look  clever — " 

"  I  will  go  out  to  you,  cousins,  if  I  cannot  find  anything 
here.  But  I  shall  stay  with  ^largaret  if  I  can.  Poor  Margaret ! 
Oh  !  There  is  a  curse  upon  this  horrible,  hateful,  dreadful  in- 
heritance. Ruin  and  destruction  that  old  man  brought  with 
him  to  whomsoever  he  approached — " 

At  this  moment  the  old  woman  in  the  easy-chair  opened  her 
eyes.  She  looked  carefully  round  the  room  and  then  stood  up, 
meekly  folding  her  hands. 

"The  gentlemen  are  gone,"  she  said  —  "Sir  John  and  my 
uncle  Henry's  grandson  and  the  others ;  only  us  left  by  our- 
selves. Mrs,  Calvert  says  that  those  talk  least  who  know  most. 
Deary   me!     I    knew   everything   all   the  time.      But   no  —  I 


308  UEVOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

wouldn't  speak.  I  pretended  to  be  asleep.  Oh  !  I  could  have 
told  everybody — " 

"  We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  keeping  asleep." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  ray  duty,"  she  replied,  "  I'm  a  Burley,  too, 
by  mother's  side.  Do  you  think  1  would  say  a  word  to  bring 
down  the  Burley  pride  or  spoil  a  joyful  day  when  all  the  Bur- 
leys  meet  together?  AVith  us  women  left  behind,  it  doesn't 
matter  what  we  say." 

«' Not — so  much — not  quite — so  much,"  replied  Lucy,  the 
eldest. 

"  Daughters  of  Sir  John  Burleigh,"  she  said.  "  Grand- 
dauo-hters  of  Charles — my  mother's  brother — who  was  unfortu- 
nate and  was  transported  to  Australia  and  escaped,  and  came 
back  again  and  went  out  to  New  Zealand.  And  granddaughter 
of  James,  too — my  mother's  youngest  brother — who  ran  away 
with  his  master's  wife.  Oh !  yes.  It's  beautiful  to  sec  you, 
and  to  be  asked  to  sit  down  with  you,  and  to  remember  all 
about  you.  I  wish  my  mother  had  lived  to  see  you — such  fine 
young  ladies.  And  1  hope,  1  do,  that  you  will  find  good  hus- 
bands— that  you'll  be  more  fortunate  than  your  grandfathers. 
They  were  too  high-spirited,  mother  always  said.  We  have 
been  an  unfortunate  family,  she  used  to  say,  but  never  any- 
thing mean  about  us.  Always  high-minded.  And  always 
money  in  the  family." 

Ella  heaved  a  profound  sigh.  "  Now  that  one  hears  it  for 
the  second  time,"  she  said,  addressing  her  cousins,  "  it  doesn't 
hurt  quite  so  much,  does  it  ?  Perhaps  it  is  not  quite  so 
dreadful  as  at  first." 

"It  hurts  enough  to  make  us  feel  it  all  our  lives,"  said 
Lucy,  the  eldest.  "But,  there — it  matters  nothing  so  long  as 
the  pater  doesn't  know  it.  Oh  !  my  dears,  so  long  as  that 
dear  old  man  never  finds  it  out  or  suspects  it,  what  does  it 
matter  if  we  suffer  under  this  knowledge?  We  will  go  home 
and  carry  with  us  the  humbugging  genealogy,  and  talk  about  it 
as  if  we  believed  it,  and  even  pride  ourselves  and  stick  out  our 
chins  on  account  of  that  grand  old  fraud,  John  of  Gaunt — 
time-honored  Lancaster." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

WHAT    THE    PRESS    SAID 

"  It  is  announced  in  another  column  that  the  missing  heir  to 
the  Burley  estates  has  at  last  been  found.  In  other  words,  he 
has  thought  proper,  after  a  silence  not  yet  explained,  to  come 
forward  and  to  disclose  himself.  The  facts  of  the  case,  if  we 
may  assume  them  to  be  established,  possess  a  certain  amount  of 
romance  not  commonly  met  with.  As  regards  the  late  Calvert 
Burley,  the  world  already  knows  his  history.  The  son  of  a  man 
afflicted  with  the  disease — if  it  is  nothing  less — of  the  miserly 
disposition,  he  saw  his  brothers  and  sisters  fly  one  after  the  other 
from  their  wretched  home  and  disappear.  Search  has  been 
made  after  these  brothers  and  sisters.  There  are  descendants 
of  some  living  in  various  parts  of  the  world,  but  it  would  appear 
that,  by  some  accident  or  other — a  missing  link  in  the  evidence, 
a  marriage  not  established,  the  absence  of  documentary  proof 
connecting  the  possible  claimant  with  the  deceased — none  of 
those  descendants  have  yet  been  able  to  make  good  tiioir  claim. 
It  is  said  that  an  old  woman  was  found  in  a  workhouse  who  was 
the  daughter  of  John  Burley's  sister.  And  it  appeared  likely, 
in  the  continued  absence  of  the  son  or  grandchildren,  that  the 
estate  would  devolve  upon  a  higher  branch  still,  that  represented 
by  the  generation  of  the  Westminster  miser.  Had  this  hap- 
pened, we  believe  that  a  well  -  known  colonial  statesman,  a 
K.  C.  M.G.,  would  have  carried  off  the  millions.  As  for  the 
other  claimants,  who  arc  numbered  by  the  thousand,  they  have 
not,  and  never  had,  the  least  chance  of  inheriting  anything.  In 
any  case,  their  dreams  are  now  rudely  dispelled,  for  the  grand- 
son has  turned  up  and  he  will  take  all. 

"  This  grandson  appears  to  be  a  young  man  worthy  of  the 
great  fortune  which  awaits  him.     He  has  hitherto  been  known 


310  BEYOND    TIIK    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

as  Lucian  Calvert,  lie  is  a  physician  attached  to  the  Children's 
Hospital,  Buckingham  I'alace  Road.  He  has  also,  by  his  bio- 
logical researches,  arrived  already  at  the  distinction  of  Fellow  of 
the  Royal  Society.  He  has  always  been  brought  up  under  the 
name  of  Calvert  and  in  ignorance  of  his  real  name  and  family. 
John  Calvert,  the  son  of  the  money  -  lender,  being  a  sensitive 
youth,  and  unable  to  stand  the  reflections  passed  upon  his  fa- 
ther's various  trades  of  gamester,  proprietor  of  night- houses, 
and  money-lender;  and  being  also  reminded  continually  of  his 
relationship  to  the  Westminster  miser,  whose  memory  still  lin- 
gered in  the  locality,  was  disgusted  with  the  pursuit  of  wealth 
in  these  directions,  and  resolved  to  leave  his  home,  abandon  his 
name,  and  to  work  his  own  way  in  the  world  without  any  assist- 
ance whatever.  This  project  was  actually  carried  into  effect, 
one  knows  not  how,  by  the  son  of  the  richest  man  in  the  coun- 
trv.  He  became  an  engineer :  in  the  Forties  and  Fifties  it  was 
a  profession  which  gave  work  to  a  great  many  and  wealth  to 
more  than  a  few.  John  Calvert  found  work,  but  not  fortune. 
It  is  said  by  those  who  remember  him,  but  did  not  know  his 
real  name  and  history,  that  he  always  seemed  to  have  a  horror 
of  saving  or  making  money ;  a  natural  reaction,  had  his  friends 
known  it,  from  the  money-making  atmosphere  in  which  he  had 
been  brought  up.  He  died  four  months  ago,  a  few  days  before 
his  father.  On  his  death-bed  he  first  communicated  to  his  only 
son  the  truth  about  his  parentage.  It  is  also  said  that  he  begged 
liis  son  to  take  no  steps  whatever  to  make  himself  known  to  his 
afi-cd  grandfather,  who  knew  nothing  of  his  existence,  nor  to 
make  any  endeavor  to  secure  any  part  of  the  estates  for  him- 
self. The  young  man  obeyed  these  wishes.  But  when  the 
grandfather  died,  the  day  after  it  was  found  that  he  had  actual- 
ly died  intestate.  The  Treasury,  as  we  all  know,  stepped  in  ; 
the  whole  of  the  papers  were  seized,  and  an  advertisement 
called  upon  the  heirs  to  come  forward. 

"The  grandson,  at  this  intelligence,  was  placed  in  a  strange 
position.  First  of  all,  the  thing  which  no  one  could  have  ex- 
pected actually  happened.  The  man  who  above  all  men,  one 
would  think,  would  have  been  careful  of  his  succession,  actual- 
ly forgot,  or  purposely  neglected,  to  make  his  will.  Therefore, 
in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  this  young  man  found  himself 


WHAT    THE    PRESS    SAID  3U 

sole  heir.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  no  doubt  that  his  fa- 
ther, who  loathed  the  thought  of  money  which  had  been  a  curse 
and  a  shame  to  his  childhood,  would  have  wished  him  not  to 
claim  his  right,  but  to  go  on  carving  out  his  own  way  as  brill- 
iantly as  he  had  begun,  without  the  help  of  money.  It  is,  in- 
deed, the  chief  glory  of  our  modern  men  of  science  that  they 
do  not  use  their  knowledge,  as  they  might,  as  a  means  of  mak- 
ing money.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  use  science  for  the  sake  of 
making  a  fortune,  and  another  thing  to  inherit  a  fortune  already 
made.  Dr.  Lucian  Calvert,  F.  R.  S.,  may  very  well  think  that 
he  can  go  on  with  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  whether  he  is  rich 
or  poor.  Again,  in  the  nostrils  of  John  Calvert,  civil  engineer, 
this  fortune  stank.  He  remembered  hearing  of  the  miser  creep- 
ing out  after  dark  in  his  ragged  old  gabardine,  picked  up  on  the 
foreshore  of  the  Thames,  carrying  a  basket  in  which  he  put  the 
odds  and  ends  which  he  picked  up — crusts,  bones,  bottles,  bits 
of  coal,  nails,  bits  of  wood  —  everything.  That  was  how  the 
family  fortune  was  increased.  He  remembered  hearing  of  the 
gambling -hell  in  St.  James's  Street,  in  which  his  father  sat  all 
night  long,  raking  in  the  money,  lending  more  money  to  the 
gamblers,  and  raking  that  in  as  well ;  the  dancing- cribs  which 
his  father  kept,  making  large  moneys  out  of  the  vice  and  profli- 
gacy of  the  town ;  and  the  oflice  in  Cork  Street  where  the  mon- 
ey-lender sat,  exacting  his  cent  for  cent  with  a  relentless  pur- 
pose to  which  Shylock  never  reached.  To  him  the  fortune 
stank.  Time  purifies  even  such  a  fortune  as  this.  By  the  second 
generation  the  curses  of  the  gamblers,  the  loud  laughter  of  the 
miserable  women  in  the  dancing-places,  the  groans  of  the  ruined 
borrowers,  are  silent  and  buried  in  the  grave  with  the  short-lived 
profligates  on  whom  this  human  shark  preyed.  They  are  silent 
and  forgotten.  The  years  have  flowed  like  a  fresh  stream  over 
the  pile  of  golden  guineas ;  they  are  sweetened  and  cleaned. 
No  one  will  scoff  at  the  way  in  which  that  pile  was  accumu- 
lated ;  no  one,  indeed,  ever  inquires  too  closely  into  the  history 
of  inherited  wealth  :  in  general  terms  we  know.  Therefore  we 
cannot  wonder  if  Dr.  Lucian  Calvert,  after  due  consideration 
to  his  father's  views  and  the  separation  of  prejudice  from  equi- 
ty, has  come  to  the  conclusion  that  his  duty,  as  well  as  his 
right,  requires  him  to  take  his  own." 


313  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

That  was  the  view  taken,  more  or  less,  by  all  the  papers.  Of 
course,  the  amount  involved  being  so  enormous,  there  was  an 
article  on  the  subject  by  every  paper  in  every  city  in  the  world. 
The  London  letter-writers  had  a  topic  such  as  seldom  indeed 
occurs.  The  interviewers  stood  ten  deep  outside  the  door  of 
No.  77,  Great  College  Street.  The  evening  papers  produced 
long  articles  "  From  One  Who  Knows  Ilim  ;"  "  From  a  Fellow- 
student,"  ''From  a  School-fellow."  No  need  to  say  who  was 
meant;  there  was  only  one  man  for  the  moment  in  the  whule 
world.  Kings  and  presidents  were  neglected  ;  revolutions  were 
unheeded ;  the  British  empire  was  enlarged  by  a  cantle  of  the 
earth  as  big  as  France ;  and  no  one  cared.  The  only  person 
thought  of,  spoken  of,  was  Lucian  Calvert,  M.D.,  F.R.S.,  more 
rightly  named  Lucian  Calvert  Burley. 

"  Wc  now  understand,"  said  Nurse  Agatha  to  Sister  Anne, 
"what  has  been  the  matter  with  the  doctor.  No  wonder  he 
was  absent  and  absorbed.  "We  thought  him  moody,  and  he 
was  only  wondering  whether  he  should  take  his  own  or  not." 

"And  now  he  has  got  it,"  Nurse  Anne  replied,  "I  shall  ask 
him  to  endow  the  Nurses'  Pension  Fund." 

"  Everybody  will  ask  him  to  give  to  everything.  lie  will 
have  to  keep  a  staff  of  clerks  with  nothing  to  do  except  to  say 
no." 

Everybody  did  begin  to  ask.  ^yondcrful  it  was  to  see  the 
postman  reeling  and  staggering  to  the  door  with  letters.  The 
secretaries  of  all  the  hospitals  began  ;  the  clergymen  of  all  the 
churches  and  chapels ;  the  charities  and  charitable  societies ; 
the  philanthropic  associations ;  the  societies  for  befriending 
people  of  all  kinds;  and,  above  all,  the  people  in  distress — 
widows,  wives,  and  daughters;  men  out  of  work;  men  too  old 
to  work ;  men  struck  down  by  some  disease  or  other ;  children 
bereft  of  parents — one  would  think  that  every  other  person  in 
this  island  of  Great  Britain,  to  say  nothing  of  the  adjacent 
islands  of  Ireland,  Man,  Scilly,  and  Lindisfarne,  was  a  destitute 
pauper  reduced  to  beg  for  succor.  Whether  Lucian  opened 
any  of  these  letters  I  know  not.  Later  on,  Margaret  found 
most  of  them  in  the  dining-room.  They  lay  piled  on  the  table, 
and  they  ran  over;  they  were  thrown  under  the  table,  and  they 
ran  over  and  outside ;  they  were  turned  out  of  the  bag  into  the 


WHAT    THE    PRESS    SAID  313 

corners,  and  they  ran  over ;  tliey  were  piled  in  the  drawers  and 
the  sideboard  and  the  sofa,  and  they  ran  over.  If  it  were  not 
for  the  fear  of  exaggerating,  one  would  say,  calmly,  that  they 
lay  heaped  up  as  high  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Some  of  these  letters  were  threatening.  Unless  a  certain 
sum  was  sent  to  a  certain  address  a  dreadful  revenge  would 
be  taken.  Dynamite  would  be  employed ;  six-shooters  would 
be  exhibited ;  the  immense  fortune  should  not  be  enjoyed  for 
long ;  the  writer  was  a  desperate  man.  Some  were  sarcastic. 
Would  the  owner  of  millions  consider  that  a  miserable  hun- 
dred would  put  the  writer  beyond  the  reach  of  want?  Would 
the  very  rich  man  condescend  to  listen  to  a  tale  of  distress 
which  could  be  relieved  by  a  sum  so  small  as  to  be  absolutely 
nnfelt?  Some  were  religious.  The  owner  of  millions  must 
consider  himself  a  trustee.  He  held  his  property  in  trust; 
not  to  be  lavished  unworthily  ;  not  to  be  saved  up.  Now  here 
was  a  case  in  which  real  good — good  of  such  a  kind  as  to 
soften  things  for  his  soul  hereafter — was  in  his  power.  The  en- 
closed papers  would  show.  There  were  the  letters  of  the  pro- 
fessional beggar — the  professional  whine  to  be  detected  at  once. 
There  were  the  letters  of  inventors  who  only  wanted  a  little 
capital  to  make  a  great  success  with  their  improved  traction- 
engine  ;  and  the  projectors  who  wanted  nothing  but  a  few  hun- 
dreds to  make  their  scheme  the  joy  and  wonder  of  the  whole 
earth.  And,  lastly,  there  were  the  letters,  familiar  to  every  one, 
from  all  who  were  needy  and  oppressed ;  from  the  widow  and 
the  wife  and  the  daughter;  all  madly  passionate,  praying,  and 
imploring,  so  that  a  heart  of  stone  would  melt  at  reading  their 
terrible  tales.  What  becomes  of  all  these  cases  of  suffering 
and  woe  ?  If  ail  the  rich  men  in  all  the  world  answered  these 
letters  with  five-pound  notes,  when  these  were  spent  the  tale 
of  distress  would  be  renewed.  *'  Let  me  tide  over  the  misery 
of  to-day,"  cries  the  widow ;  "  my  children  want  clothes  and 
food."  And  what  of  to-morrow,  madam?  What,  indeed?  But 
of  to-morrow  we  hear  nothing. 

As  Lucian  had  as  yet  received  no  money,  it  was  useless  to 
open  or  to  answer  these  letters.  Therefore,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
threw  them  all  into  the  dining-room — which  in  those  days  of 
solitude  he  did  not  use — and  left  them  there. 

14 


314  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

Tliese  days  of  solitude — lie  was  quite  alone — he  felt  a  kind 
of  fierce  exultation  in  being  alone.  It  was  fitting,  somehow, 
that  the  richest  man  in  tlic  world  should  be  alone.  Margaret 
would  return  presently,  when  the  superstition  left  her,  and  she 
found  that  the  lightning  had  not  struck  the  inheritor  of  the 
Burley  estates.  Alone,  he  would  meditate  on  l)is  schemes. 
Alone,  he  would  best  bear  the  great  shock  of  receiving  all  this 
wealth. 

It  was  the  Spectator  which  first  asked  in  public,  what  every- 
body was  asking  in  private,  "What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

"  Here  is  a  young  man,"  said  this  article,  "  who  is  suddenly 
lifted  from  the  apparently  modest  income  of  a  young  physician 
and  man  of  science,  the  scholar  and  student  who  has  never  had 
any  thought  or  expectancy  whatever  of  '  enjoying,'  as  it  is 
called,  a  large  fortune,  or  even  an  income  large  enough  to  admit 
of  the  generous  life  —  the  life  which  enables  a  man  to  have 
whatever  he  wants  for  his  own  pursuits :  in  the  case  of  a  scien- 
tific student,  a  laboratory  and  instruments,  assistance  and  lei- 
sure for  research.  This  young  man,  whose  record  is  so  consid- 
erable, suddenly  finds  himself  in  the  possession  of  an  income,  the 
greater  part  of  which,  though  there  are  wliolc  streets  of  houses,  is 
said  to  be  safely  invested  in  consols.  It  is  also  said,  though  these 
figures  appear  to  be  quite  uncertain,  that  the  income  from  all 
sources  is  nothing  short  of  a  quarter  of  a  million.  If,  therefore, 
this  modern  Dives  should  resolve  upon  leaving  his  principal  in- 
tact, he  has  every  year,  to  play  with,  a  quarter  of  a  million. 
What  will  he  do  with  it?  He  is  said  to  be  a  young  man  of 
simple  habits.  He  will  certainly  neither  eat  nor  drink  more 
than  he  has  been  accustomed  to  eat  and  drink.  Perhaps  in  the 
course  of  time  he  may  arrive  at  a  more  carefully  critical  taste; 
he  may  want  liis  claret  finer  and  his  food  more  artistic.  This, 
however,  will  not  make  a  serious  inroad  upon  his  income.  If 
he  marries  and  has  a  family,  they  may,  and  probably  will,  de- 
mand a  certain  style  in  living ;  he  may  accept  a  title.  He  may 
purchase  a  country-scat.  His  expenses  might  rise  gradually  to 
£30,000  a  year.  That  will  still  leave  him  £220,000  a  year. 
What  will  he  do  with  it? 

"  He  might  save  it.  This  would  be  ignoble  treatment.  We 
will  not  consider  the  possibility  of  a  man  with  a  dozen  millions 


WHAT    THE    PRESS    SAID  315 

desiring  to  add  more.  If,  however,  he  were  to  save  £200,000 
a  year,  in  five -and -twenty  years  he  would  be  wortli  about 
£8,000,000  more,  and  then  ?  No ;  we  will  not  consider  the 
possibility  of  saving.  He  must  do  something.  What  will  he 
do?  He  might  ^«i'e,  freely,  all  his  life.  There  are  many  things 
which  want  donors  and  donations  continually.  In  this  way  he 
would  help  to  maintain  a  great  many  institutions  of  an  admi- 
rable kind.  There  are  hospitals,  for  instance ;  with  so  much 
money  he  might  maintain,  single-handed,  half  a  dozen  hospitals. 
But  are  there  not  too  many  already  ?  Are  not  the  hospitals 
used  by  persons  who  have  no  right  to  demand  or  to  accept  their 
charities  ?  There  are  certain  benevolent  societies  of  which  the 
Charity  Organization  Society  has  sometimes  spoken  harshly. 
It  might  widen  the  powers  of  these  associations,  and  so  enable 
them  to  pauperize  the  people  much  more  effectually.  In  f;ict, 
the  first  danger  that  faces  the  rich  man  is  that  the  more  money 
he  gives  the  more  he  weakens  the  self-reliance  of  the  people. 
Therefore  we  believe  that  this  young  man  will  not  give  money 
for  the  relief  of  poverty.  He  will  leave  people,  on  the  whole, 
to  learn  those  wholesome  lessons  that  suffering  alone  seems  able 
to  teach.  Yet,  since  we  are  human  and  the  sight  of  suffering 
that  seems  unmerited — as  that  of  children — is  always  distress- 
ing, this  rich  man  will,  one  thinks,  give  money  to  a  judicious 
almoner.  What  else  can  he  do  ?  Formerly  he  might  reclaim 
swamps  and  moors  for  agriculture.  But  who  wants  more  land 
when  so  many  thousands  of  acres  are  lying  uncultivated?  Or 
he  might  found  scholarships  and  fellowships.  There  are 
enough  of  both;  every  young  man  who  deserves  assistance  can 
get  a  scholarship.  Or  he  might  build  almshouses;  that  is,  it  is 
true,  the  least  mischievous  form  of  preventing  thrift.  In  these 
days  he  may  create  and  endow  technical  schools  and  polytech- 
nics. These  are  very  excellent  things,  but  our  county  councils 
will  very  shortly  take  over  these  colleges,  or  create  others  to  be 
supported  by  the  rates,  or — better  still — by  all  the  people,  for 
the  people.  Better  to  have  national  schools  for  arts  and  crafts 
than  to  depend  on  the  possible  foundations  of  rich  men.  Then, 
what  will  he  do  with  it  ? 

"  He  might  present  an  iron-clad  every  two  years ;  he  might 
undertake  the  support  of  two  regiments  of  the  line ;  ho  might 


316  BEYOND    THE    DKKAMS    OF    AVARICE 

acquire  an  ugly  street  and  make  it  a  street  beautiful  —  say 
Drury  Lane  ;  but  a  great  nation  does  not  want  gifts  from  private 
persons.  He  miglit  give  his  attention  to  the  breed  of  horses 
or  of  cattle ;  to  the  improvement  of  machinery ;  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  inventions ;  but  in  all  these  things  the  ground 
is  already  occupied  by  those  to  whom  these  things  are  a  pro- 
fession or  a  trade.     Again,  therefore,  what  will  he  do  with  it  ? 

"  The  more  one  thinks  of  it  the  more  one  finds  that  the  difii- 
culties  increase.  What  shall  the  rich  man  do  with  his  money  ? 
lie  might  conduct  a  newspaper  or  a  magazine  or  a  review, 
as  he  thinks  such  things  should  be  conducted,  and  without 
reference  to  popular  opinion  or  to  pecuniary  success.  But  then 
one  of  two  things  would  ha})pcn.  Either  his  paper  would  be 
deadly  dull,  in  which  case  it  would  neither  have  a  circulation 
nor  be  looked  on  as  an  example,  or  it  would  become  popular 
(and  so  make  him  richer),  and  beget  a  host  of  imitators.  And 
suppose,  after  all,  that  his  idea  of  a  newspaper  was  wrong. 
Nothing  more  mischievous  than  a  newspaper  conducted  on 
mistaken  principles.  To  sum  up,  we  fear  that  we  can  find  no 
work  for  the  rich  man  to  do.  When  he  has  spent  all  he  wants 
to  spend,  when  he  has  given  as  much  to  distressful  folk  as  he 
thinks  safe  and  prudent,  then  will  remain  an  immense  sum 
every  year,  which  this  man  will  have  to  save  if  he  does  not 
wish  to  do  mischief.  There  seems  no  help  for  him.  His 
children  will  be  cursed  from  the  outset  with  immense  fortunes 
and  with  no  stimulus  to  work,  and  every  temptation  to  luxury 
and  vice.  For  them  we  entertain  the  pity  and  the  curiosity 
that  we  reserve  for  those  born  with  the  silver  spoon.  Having 
expressed  our  opinion  as  to  what  cannot  be  done,  we  repeat  the 
question,  '  W'hat  will  he  do  with  it?'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucian,  "  but  they  have  not  thought  of  my  great 
college  of  science." 

This  amusement  lasted  for  a  fortnight.  The  popular  imagina- 
tion was  touched.  It  is  not  every  day  that  a  man  of  no  family, 
so  far  as  he  had  ever  discovered,  finds  himself  the  heir  and 
the  immediate  possessor  of  millions.  In  the  old  lotteries  a  man 
fancied  a  number,  saved,  or  sometimes  stole,  the  money  with 
which  to  buy  a  whole  ticket — and — won  the  great  prize ;  when 
the  prize  was  declared  the  papers,  then  in  an  elementary  stage 


WHAT    THE    PRESS    SAID  317 

of  existence,  always  had  a  brief  paragraph  calling  attention  to 
the  sudden  accession  of  wealth,  and  there  the  matter  ended ; 
but  deep  in  the  popular  breast  lay  the  hope  —  the  thought — 
the  prayer,  even  —  that  a  similar  fortune  might  attend  them 
— even  now,  when  there  are  no  lotteries  to  speak  of,  when  the 
ordinary  man  has  no  rich  cousins,  when  the  old  Nabob  exists 
«o  longer.  He  used  to  come  home  with  a  liver  like  a  bit  of 
coral,  with  lacs  upon  lacs  of  rupees,  just  at  the  nick  of  time, 
in  the  hour  when  our  need  was  the  sorest.  He  exists  no 
longer,  and  the  sudden,  the  unexpected,  the  nick-of-time  fortune 
comes  no  more.  What  we  cannot  get  for  ourselves,  we  cannot 
get  at  all.  What  we  have  not  saved,  we  cannot  use  at  a  time  of 
tightness.  What  we  have  not  sown,  we  cannot  reap.  It  is 
hard  to  lose  the  element  of  chance ;  there  was  always  hope 
for  the  sanguine.  Now  hope,  which  chiefly  means  the  looking 
out  for  luck,  has  fled  to  heaven,  and  the  world  is  face  to  face 
with  reality  and  fate  and  the  consequences  of  extravagance. 
Better  so,  says  the  moralist.  Perhaps,  but  still —  Suppose,  dear 
friend,  some  one  were  to  present  you,  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly, with  a  hundred  thousand  pounds.  How  would  you 
feel  about  it  ?  He  would  be  robbing  some  one  else,  says  the 
moralist  again.  Perhaps,  but  still —  And  this  man,  this  Lucian 
Calvert,  this  thrice-lucky  young  man,  who  deserved  no  better 
than  his  neighbors,  and  expected  no  more,  was  standing  up 
there,  for  all  eyes  to  see,  on  his  pyramid  of  twelve  millions,  or 
fifty  millions,  to  demonstrate  to  the  world  that  there  may  be 
still  some  kind  of  treasure- trove,  some  unexpected  turn  of 
Fortune's  wheel. 

For  a  whole  fortnight,  as  everybody  will  remember,  Lucian 
Calvert  was  tlje  subject  of  talk,  the  subject  of  the  journals 
over  the  whole  habitable  world.  Nothing  so  romantic  as  the 
sudden  elevation  to  riches  and  power  of  a  young  man  known 
only  to  his  little  circle. 

A  fortnight;  a  short  fortuight.  Did  the  darling  of  fortune 
read  what  was  said  of  him?  He  must  have  read  something. 
But,  for  the  most  part,  he  stayed  at  home  perfecting  the  plans 
for  his  college  of  science. 

For  a  fortniirht.     And  then — 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE 

Then  it  was  as  if  the  broad  earth  trembled  and  all  the  foun- 
dations were  swept ;  as  if  the  stars  fell  from  the  heavens ;  as  if 
the  moon  were  darkened  and  the  planets  became  invisible. 

A  certain  newspaper  got  the  intelligence  before  any  of  its 
rivals.  How  ?  No  one  ever  knew  ;  but  as  a  writer  at  tenpence 
an  hour  happened  to  be  in  a  certain  room  in  a  certain  govern- 
ment office  at  the  moment  of  a  certain  discovery,  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  conjecture.  The  secrets  of  the  Treasury  cannot  be  safe- 
ly guarded  at  tenpence  an  hour.  When  a  secret  comes  into 
the  possession  of  tenpence  an  hour  it  finds  its  way  to  a  news- 
paper office  and  becomes  the  property  of  the  whole  world.  This 
newspaper,  four-and-twenty  hours  in  advance  of  all  its  rivals, 
naturally  spread  itself  over  the  fact  and  made  the  most  of  it, 
with  the  news  in  leaded  type,  and  tlie  front  page  and  longest 
leading  article  wholly  devoted  to  the  subject.  The  following  is 
the  paragraph  : 

"  A  dramatic  discovery,  reported  in  our  columns,  has  just 
been  made  concerning  the  now  famous  liurley  estates.  It  is  a 
discovery  which  changes  at  a  stroke  the  whole  situation.  A 
will  has  been  found,  dated  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  by  which 
the  testator,  John  Calvert  Burley,  leaves  his  whole  estate,  real 
and  personal,  in  trust,  to  the  Council  of  the  Royal  Society  for 
the  foundation  and  endowment  of  a  college  of  science.  It  is 
not  to  be  a  teaching  college,  but  a  college  of  research.  The 
endowments  of  the  professors,  the  nature  and  extent  of  the 
buildings,  and  all  other  details  are  left  to  the  Royal  Society. 
Such,  briefly,  is  the  will,  which  does  not  recognize  the  son  at  all, 
and  was  drawn  up  and  signed  before  the  grandson  was  born. 
If  the  will  proves  genuine,  which  there  seems  no  reason  to 
doubt,  the  grandson  is  absolutely  disinherited." 


EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE  319 

And  the  following  is  a  portion  of  the  leading  article,  which, 
of  course,  was  written  on  the  same  subject : 

"  The  Burley  estates  have  produced  another  surprise,  and 
that  of  the  most  unexpected  kind.  The  will  of  John  Calvert 
Burley,  deceased,  has  been  discovered.  The  fortunate  young 
gentleman,  Mr.  Lucian  Calvert,  M.D.,  F.R.S.,  whom  all  the  world 
has  been  congratulating  for  the  last  fortnight,  whose  name  has 
been  on  everybody's  lips,  has  to  lay  down  everything — to  be 
sure  he  had  actually  received  nothing — and  to  retire  upon  his 
old  profession.  As  he  had  the  strength  of  will  to  wait  for 
four  months  before  sending  in  his  claim,  it  is  hoped  that  he 
will  have  the  philosophy  to  resign,  with  nothing  more  than  a 
natural  sigh,  the  power  and  authority  which  belong  to  sucli 
great  riches.  We  commend  him  to  the  reflection  that  the  abil- 
ities which  have  made  him,  at  so  early  an  age,  an  F.R.S.,  will 
continue  to  advance  him  in  the  honorable  path  he  has  laid  down 
for  himself.  He  wants  no  fortune  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  great  men  before  him.  As  regards  the  will,  it  appears  that 
when  the  Treasury  seized  upon  the  estate  they  found  a  vast 
quantity  of  papers,  some  in  the  house  or  office  where  Mr.  Bur- 
ley's  managers,  secretaries,  solicitors,  and  clerks  carried  on  his 
business  of  looking  after  the  estate  ;  some  lying  in  Mr.  Burley's 
private  residence.  These  papers  were,  it  was  thought,  all  care- 
fully examined  and  indexed.  There  was  found,  however,  yes- 
terday, a  tin  box  which  had  been  overlooked.  Among  the 
papers  in  this  box  w^as  the  will  of  John  Calvert  Burley.  It  was 
in  duplicate  with  the  original  draft  in  the  solicitor's  own  hand- 
writing. The  solicitor  has  been  dead  for  twenty  years.  His 
son,  however,  who  succeeded  him,  remembers  that  at  his  father's 
death  Mr.  Burley  ordered  such  of  his  papers  as  had  been  in  his 
bands  to  be  sent  to  him.  He  remembers  tliis  box  very  well ; 
and  he  is  ready  to  swear  to  his  father's  writing  and  to  the  sig- 
nature of  the  witnesses,  who  were  two  of  his  father's  clerks. 
Under  these  circumstances,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  we 
have  here  the  will  of  this  rich  man. 

"  It  is  a  curious  document,  especially  when  we  consider  the 
manner  of  man  who  drew  it  up,  and  the  kind  of  life  he  led. 
He  leaves  nothing  whatever  to  his  son  ;  of  his  grandson,  of 
course,  he   knows   nothing.      And   he   leaves  the  whole  of  his 


320  BEVOXD  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

estate,  now  producing  an  income  variously  estimated  between  a 
quarter  and  a  half  of  a  million,  for  tlic  foundation  of  a  vast  col- 
lege of  science,  with  endowments  for  research  in  every  branch. 
Did  miser  ever  before  grub  and  heap  up  money,  did  money- 
lender ever  before  accumulate  thousands,  for  the  purpose  of 
advancing  a  branch  of  knowledge  of  which  he  himself  knew 
nothing  and  cared  nothing  ?  As  a  psychological  problem,  the 
question  how  this  man,  who  raked  in  the  mud  all  his  life,  ever 
came  to  think  of  science,  will  remain  forever  unanswered." 

This  intelligence  was  the  iirst  thing  that  met  Lucian's  eyes 
when  he  opened  his  paper  at  breakfast. 

Soon  after  eleven  his  solicitor,  Mr.  Nicholson,  arrived.  He 
found  Lucian  still  at  his  untouched  breakfast ;  the  newspaper 
lay  on  the  hearth-rug.  Lucian  sat  upright,  his  hands  on  the 
arms  of  his  chair,  looking  straight  before  him. 

"  Lucian  !"  The  old  lawyer  shook  him  roughly  by  the  shoul- 
der. "  Wake  up,  man  !  What?  You  have  read  the  news?  So 
have  L     More  than  that,  I  have  been  to  the  Treasury  people — " 

Lucian  turned  with  haggard  face.  "  Is  it  true  ?"  he  asked, 
hoarsely. 

"  Quite  true,"  the  lawyer  replied,  shortly,  as  if  it  mattered 
nothing.  "True  beyond  any  doubt,  I  should  say.  Well,  then? 
We  are  once  more  just  as  we  were.  Eh  ?  We  have  enjoyed 
an  immense  fortune,  in  imagination,  eh  ?  Something  to  remem- 
ber. Once  you  had  millions,  eh?  Rather  stunned  for  the  mo- 
ment, eh  ?  You'll  soon  get  over  that — put  a  bold  face  on  it — 
make  'em  laugh  if  you  begin  to  cry,  eh?  Let  'em  see  that  you 
don't  care  much — laugh  at  it — go  to  your  club — make  calls  with 
your  wife,  eh?" 

"Is  it — all— quite  true?" 

"Oh  yes.  It  is  very  simple.  Your  father  left  his  home 
forty  years  ago.  Your  grandfather  disinherited  him.  That  is 
simple.  AVhen  the  lawyer  died,  he  had  his  papers  sent  to  his 
own  office,  where  he  employed  salaried  solicitors  to  carry  on  the 
work.  The  papers  accumulated,  and  this  box  seems  to  have 
been  overlooked  in  the  search.    Somebody  ought  to  be  sacked." 

"  In  the  search,"  Lucian  repeated,  not  attaching  the  least 
meaning  to  the  words. 


EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE  321 

"  Very  well,  then.  That  explains  how  the  papers  got  there. 
Of  course,  it  does  not  explain  how  the  Treasury  people  over- 
looked them.  I  think  there  is  no  manner  of  doubt  possible. 
Perhaps  the  Treasury  would  get  something  done  for  you." 

He  stopped.  His  words  made  no  impression.  The  look  on 
Lucian's  face  alarmed  him.  "  Is  your  wife  at  home?"  he  asked 
with  changed  voice.     "  1  should  like  to  see  her." 

"  Margaret  has  left  me.  She  left  me  because  I  claimed  my 
own." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  Good  heavens,  Lucian  !  You  have  lost  your 
■wife  and  your  vast  inheritance  as  well.  What  was  it  your 
father  said — that  ruin  and  destruction  would  follow  those  who 
held  any  portion  of  that  money  ?  Lucian,  don't  sit  staring. 
Pull  yourself  together,  man  !" 

But  he  made  no  impression,  and  presently  withdrew. 

A  black  rage  held  Lucian's  soul.  It  was  chiefly  directed 
against  his  grandfather.  How  unscientific  a  man  can  become 
on  occasion  is  shown  by  this  example.  For  he  actually  saw,  as 
clearly  as  any  one  can  see  anything,  that  old  man  tempting  him, 
urofino-  him  to  advance  his  claim ;  fiUincf  his  mind  with  the 
splendors  of  possession,  suggesting  the  great  college — allow- 
ing him  to  be  proclaimed  the  Prince  of  the  Golden  Ash-heaps 
— the  Head — the  young  Lord;  and  then,  with  a  malignant 
laugh,  producing  his  old  will,  becoming  himself  the  founder  of 
the  great  college,  and  tumbling  his  grandson  into  dust-holes  and 
ash-heaps  which  are  not  golden. 

Ilis  face  was  dark ;  the  room  was  dark,  though  outside  it  was 
high  noon ;  his  soul  within  him  was  like  unto  the  soul  of  Job 
when,  after  seven  days  and  seven  nights,  he  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  cursed  his  day,  even  the  day  of  his  birth:  "Let  the  day 
wherein  I  was  born — let  that  day  be  darkness;  let  not  the 
light  shine  upon  it;  let  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death  stain 
it.  Let  a  cloud  dwell  upon  it.  Let  the  blackness  of  the  day 
terrify  it." 

The  ruin  and  destruction  of  which  his  father  spoke  had 
fallen  upon  him.  AVhcthcr  it  was  the  curse  of  the  House,  in 
which  his  father  believed,  in  terror  of  which  his  wife  had  left 
him — whether  this  superstition  was  real  or  not,  ruin  and  de- 
struction had  fallen  upon  him  by  the  hand  of  his  grandfather. 

14* 


322  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

Misery  and  disaster  were  the  work  of  that  old  man's  liands, 
even  out  of  the  grave — misery  and  disaster  on  everybody.  So 
much  he  now  saw  plainly. 

On  his  innocent  wife,  driven  from  her  home  and  from  her 
husband.  On  those  unfortunate  New-Zealanders,  who  came  in 
search  of  an  honorable  ancestry  and  discovered  an  escaped  con- 
vict. On  that  unfortunate  American  girl,  who  dreamed  of 
boundless  wealth  and  discovered  the  shameful  secret  of  her 
father's  birth.  On  the  child  of  Piccadilly,  who  substantiated 
his  case  and  already  held  out  his  hand  to  clutch  the  estate, 
when  another  stepped  in  to  take  it.  And  on  himself,  set  up 
on  hi(Th,  to  be  dragged  down  again  in  the  face  of  the  assem- 
bled multitude.  All  the  telescopes  in  the  world  were  pointed 
at  this  unhappy  young  man  as  he  sat  bent  down  by  this  mighty 
blow — and  behind  the  telescopes  he  could  see  the  grin  univer- 
sal. Who  would  be  laughed  at  by  the  whole  world  ?  lie  was 
Job,  without  even  the  pious  admonitions  of  the  three  candid 
friends.  He  was  Job  in  darkness,  as  Blake  drew  him.  His 
spirit  looked  out  upon  the  world,  but  could  see  nothing  except 
universal  contempt,  shame,  and  derision.  He  got  up  at  last, 
fired  with  a  sudden  thought.  Murder,  revenge,  retribution  were 
in  his  eyes.  First,  he  took  from  his  study-table  a  dagger-shaped 
l^nife — you  will  never  find  a  man  of  science  very  far  from  a 
knife — and  with  this  in  his  hand  he  swiftly  mounted  the 
stairs.  He  might  have  been  going  up-stairs  in  order  to  put  his 
dao-ger  into  that  part  of  the  frame  where  he  could  most  com- 
fortably and  most  painlessly  stop  the  machinery.  But  Lucian 
was  not  so  minded.  A  fuller,  deeper,  more  satisfying  revenge 
was  in  his  mind. 

He  opened  the  drawing-room  and  looked  round  the  walls — it 
was  the  look  of  one  who  counts  his  victims  before  the  slaugh- 
ter. He  felt  the  edge  of  the  knife  with  his  finger.  It  was  sharp 
enough.  Then — how  many  times  before  this  had  he  gone  round 
the  room  and  looked  at  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors  ? — he  be- 
gan again,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  any  of  them  before.  "  Cal- 
vert," he  said,  numbering  them  off  on  his  fingers,  "  the  rogue 
who  robbed  his  master  and  laid  the  foundation — the  master- 
builder  ;  roguery  and  robbery  make  good  foundations — honesty 
is  but  sand.      Calvert's  son  —  John  the  highway  -  robber  and 


EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE  323 

spendthrift  and  liangman's  job.  John  Calvert  the  third — tlio 
religious  maniac — poor  wretch  !  John  the  miser — the  creature 
who  picked  up  bones  and  crusts,  and  drove  out  his  children. 
John  the  money-lender — the  owner  of  the  dancing-cribs  and 
gaming-hells  ;  the  man  who  disinherited  his  son  and  made  me 
dream  of  the  great  college  ! 

"  Why,"  he  murmured,  "  I  am  like  them  all.  I  liave  their 
face — there  is  but  one  face  for  all.  It  is  my  face.  I  have  all 
their  vices  somewhere  inside  me.  These  I  have  inherited.  I 
came  back  to  them  with  these  views — and  yet  they  won't  have 
me!" 

The  faces  of  the  men  scowled  at  hiin.  Because  this  disaster 
had  fallen  upon  him  ?  But  they  had  had  plenty  of  disasters 
among  themselves.  The  women  looked  at  him  coldly  and  care- 
lessly, as  if  wondering  for  a  brief  moment  who  this  poor  wretch 
might  be,  and  what  he  was  doing  among  them  all.  Both  men 
and  women  rejected  him  ;  if  silent  looks  mean  anything,  then 
they  would  have  none  of  him.  Where,  at  this  juncture,  one 
asks  with  bewilderment,  was  divine  philosophy?  Where  cold 
reason  ?  For  this  man  of  science,  this  physician,  learned  and 
sapient,  this  student  of  the  mysteries  and  phenomena  of  life, 
became  for  the  moment  like  a  superstitious  girl.  The  curse  of 
the  House  had  descended  upon  him.  He  owned  it  in  his  soul ; 
he  felt  it.  His  father  had  done  rightly  to  escape  by  flight ; 
he  had  returned,  and  this  was  his  reward.  Shame  and  disgrace 
of  some  kind  or  other  must  needs  fall  upon  all  who  belonged  to 
the  House,  and  especially  upon  those  who  possessed,  or  desired 
to  possess,  the  fortune  acquired  in  dishonor,  maintained  in  dis- 
honor, and  increased  in  dishonor. 

As  every  one  knows,  in  moments  of  great  emotion  the  brain 
sometimes  refuses  the  control  of  the  master;  it  works  indepen- 
dently ;  it  goes  off  roaming  in  long-forgotten  places.  Thus,  Lu- 
cian's  brain,  at  this  crisis,  spontaneously  presented  him  with  a 
page  of  a  printed  book  spread  out  before  his  eyes  so  that  he 
could  read  it,  Not  a  book  in  which  he  often  cared  to  read,  or 
a  book  which  ho  regarded  as  necessary  to  be  read  ;  not  a  book 
of  science;  a  book  into  which,  as  a  rule,  he  never  even  looked. 
The  page  presented  from  this  book,  however,  was  one  which  he 
had  himself  found  in  Westminster  Abbey  for  the  speedier  con- 


324  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

fusion  of  Margaret's  superstitions.  And  now  Le  saw  it  clearly 
spread  out  before  him — on  the  wall — like  the  inscription  which 
affrighted  the  king  of  Babylon.  It  was,  in  fact,  none  other  than 
the  page  entitled   "  The  Unjust  Parable  of  the  Sour  Grapes." 

He  read  the  whole  page  through — that  is  to  say,  he  remem- 
bered the  whole  page,  which  is  the  same  thing  ;  indeed,  he 
thought  he  was  reading  it. 

The  last  admonition,  in  the  long  chain  of  explanation  and  as- 
surance, is  not,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  conveyed  in  words 
such  as  those  now  used  by  scientific  men,  nor  does  it  take  the 
form  most  likely  to  appeal  to  the  scientific  mind.  Yet  be- 
cause he  was  able  to  detach  the  central  thought  of  the  passage 
from  the  words  in  which  it  was  clothed,  the  admonitions  fell 
upon  his  darkened  spirit  like  a  ray  of  sunlight. 

"  Cast  away  from  you  all  your  transgressions.  Make  you  a 
new  heart  and  a  new  spirit.  For  why  will  you  die,  O  House  of 
Israel ?" 

Like  a  blaze  of  sunshine  and  light  that  printed  page  with  its 
burning  words  fell  upon  his  soul.  Margaret  once  said  that  no 
one  could  help  her.  "  Not  even  the  Prophet  Ezekiel."  But 
the  prophet  did  bring  help.  No  curse  at  all,  said  the  prophet. 
Every  man  stands  or  falls  by  himself.  Why  had  this  disaster 
fallen  upon  him  ?  Because  his  grandfather  was  a  money-lend- 
er? Not  at  all.  The  thing  fell  upon  him  quite  naturally. 
The  will  was  certain  to  be  found,  some  time  or  other.  Had  he 
not  deserted  his  own  work,  the  work  for  which  he  was  intend- 
ed and  equipped,  on  which  he  was  already  fully  engaged,  in 
order  to  change  it  for  the  administration  of  a  vast  and  un- 
wieldy mass  of  wealth  for  which  he  was  in  no  way  fitted,  this 
thing  would  not  have  fallen  upon  him. 

"  Cast  away  from  you — " 

AVas  ever  man  of  science  so  convinced  before  ?  He  ac- 
knowledged no  authority  in  the  prophetic  office ;  but  he  recog- 
nized the  lucidity  of  the  statement,  the  justice  of  the  argu- 
ment. "Transgressions" — why  not  use  the  word?  A  very 
good  word  it  is.  He  had  transgressed  ;  he  had  stepped  beyond 
his  limits;  he  had  bartered  science  for  gold.  Therefore — 
quite  naturally — he  had  suffered.  He  had  returned,  in  spirit, 
to  the  ancestors.     Therefore — 


EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE  325 

"  At  least,"  he  said,  "  there  will  be  no  more  returning  to.  my 
own  people.  They  may  bo  anybody's  people  henceforth.  No 
Barley  will  I  be.  Calvert  was  I  born — Calvert  will  I  remain. 
My  house  shall  no  longer  be  decorated  with  the  twopenny 
daubs  of  their  portraits."  He  raised  his  knife.  He  cut  the 
cord  by  which  his  original  ancestor  was  hanging  to  the  wain- 
scot. He  took  down  the  picture,  and  then — it  was  like  an  act 
of  cruel  and  deliberate  revenge ;  it  was  an  act  which  made 
every  face  on  the  wall  turn  pale  and  every  lip  tremble ;  speech 
they  had  none — he  cut  and  hacked  the  canvas  face  out  of  the 
frame,  and  threw  frame  and  picture  on  either  side.  "  Down 
with  you!"  he  cried,  vindictively.  "  Down  with  you  all  1  Out 
you  go !" 

He  was  something  like  that  hero  who,  in  the  ecstasy  of  his 
rage,  fell  upon  the  cattle,  thinking  them  to  be  princes.  Lucian, 
in  his  great  wrath,  destroyed  the  portraits,  intending  to  con- 
sign to  oblivion  the  whole  folk  whose  memory  they  preserved. 
"  Not  one  shall  remain,"  he  said.  Then  he  carried  the  frames 
and  the  canvases  down-stairs  into  the  back  garden  and  piled 
them  up.  But  there  was  more  that  should  be  added  to  the 
pile.  He  climbed  up  to  the  garret — Margaret's  room — the  old 
nursery.  He  brought  out  the  boxes  of  broken  toys  and  trump^ 
ery  ;  he  kicked  open  the  door  of  the  highwayman's  room,  and 
seized  his  musical  instruments  and  his  easel  and  paints.  He 
carried  all  these  things  into  the  back  garden  with  his  own 
hands. 

Then  he  called  his  servants  and  informed  them  that  they 
must  clear  out  the  whole  of  the  two  garrets ;  and  that  they 
might  have  the  contents  of  the  drawers,  all  the  dresses  and 
things  left  by  the  runaways,  on  condition  that  everything 
should  be  cleared  out  of  the  house  in  an  liour.  "  Sell  the 
things  !"  he  cried.  "  Burn  the  things  !  Give  away  the  things  ! 
Let  me  never  find  any  of  them  here  after  an  hour.  Leave 
none  of  the  old  trumpery  behind." 

He  was  as  eager  to  destroy  everything  old  as  if  he  had  been  a 
bishop  over  a  city  church. 

Then  he  made  in  the  garden  a  small  but  complete  funeral 
pyre.  The  frames  of  the  pictures  formed  the  foundation ; 
the  wooden   cradle  and  the  toys  lay  on  the  frames ;  the  pict- 


326  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

ures  themselvos  were  piled  on  the  cradle,  and  above  all  lay 
certain  bundles  of  papers.  Among  them  were  Mr,  Calvert 
Burley's  Apology  ;  the  letters  and  household  books  found  in 
the  cupboard  ;  the  genealogy  of  the  House,  and  the  drawings, 
plans,  and  calculations  concerning  the  great  college  of  science, 
on  which  he  himself  had  worked  for  the  last  month  with  so 
much  zeal  and  patience  and  determination.  Everything  com- 
pleted, he  applied  a  light.  After  all,  it  was  only  a  little  bonfire; 
but  you  must  never  measure  the  importance  of  a  bonfire  by 
its  dimensions.  Otherwise  the  Fifth  of  November  bonfire  on 
Hampstead  Heath,  which  is  a  magnificent  blaze,  might  be  con- 
sidered more  important  than  this  little  bonfire  behind  a  house 
in  Great  College  Street,  Westminster.  For  Lucian's  bonfire  was 
the  cremation  of  a  whole  family.  Nobody  will  ever  talk  about 
them  again ;  nobody  will  ever  learn  their  history  ;  the  record 
of  them  is  lost ;  only  the  great  fortune  will  survive,  for  good  or 
evil.  No  one  will  ever  speak  of  him  any  more.  Certainly  not 
the  New -Zealander,  who  cannot  think  of  the  family  without 
burning  blushes;  certainly  not  the  American  girl,  for  the  like 
reason ;  nor  the  disappointed  man  about  town  ;  nor  the  poor 
old  pauper,  because  her  memory  now  fails  her  and  she  sits  si- 
lent by  the  fireside;  nor  Margaret,  to  whom  they  have  brought 
so  much  sorrow  ;  nor  Lucian  himself,  who  owes  them  nothing 
but  this  humiliation  and  disappointment.  They  will  all  be  for- 
gotten ;  they  are  cremated ;  they  and  their  acts  and  their 
power — if  they  had  any. 

A  good  deal  more  was  burned  in  that  bonfire.  Our  ancestors 
used  to  make  bonfires  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  in  order  to 
clear  the  air.  This  bonfire  cleared  the  air.  When  Lucian  fired 
it,  he  thought  he  was  only  destroying,  once  for  all,  everything 
that  could  in  future  remind  him  of  his  own  people,  from  whom 
his  father  ran  away  —  to  wliom  lie  had  returned,  with  conse- 
quences such  as  these.  In  that  bonfire,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
were  destroyed  the  temptations  that  wellnigh  wrecked  his  life, 
the  unholy  craving  for  the  high  place  that  seems  to  mean  power 
and  promises  authority,  and  pretends  to  command  respect.  And 
in  this  bonfire  were  cremated  the  seven  devils  of  the  House  of 
Burley  —  Devil  Drive  All,  Devil  Sweat  All,  Devil  Scrape  All, 
Devil  Grasp  All,  Devil  Hard  Heart,  Devil  Loveless,  Devil  Ruth- 


EARTHQUAKES    AND    SHOWERS    OF    FIRE  327 

less.  These  devils  had  been  with  the  family  so  long  that  they 
supposed  they  were  going  to  stay  ;  they  looked  already  upon 
Lucian  as  their  natural  host  and  home.  And,  finding  no  ad- 
mission at  this  supreme  moment,  they  too  fell  shrieking  into 
this  astonishing  bonfire. 

The  thirsty  flames  ran  and  rushed  hissing  and  crackling — 
what  in  the  world  is  so  eager,  so  thirsty,  as  the  fiame  ? — in  and 
out  among  the  frames ;  they  caught  the  wooden  cradle,  they 
licked  up  the  toys  in  a  moment ;  they  made  but  one  long  spire 
pointing  heavenward,  quick  to  vanish,  of  the  papers  and  docu- 
ments. There  was  no  wind  in  the  little  back  garden,  and  the 
flames  mounted  straight  and  steady — a  pretty  sight.  The  bon- 
fire lasted  in  all  no  more  than  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

It  was  interesting,  though  certainly  not  unexpected,  to  ob- 
serve how,  when  the  flames  reached  the  canvases,  when  they 
were  at  their  highest  and  brightest,  there  became  apparent  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  fire,  floating  in  the  midst  of  the  flames, 
the  face  and  head  of  Calvert  Burley  himself,  founder  of  this 
most  distinguished  House,  separated  from  the  picture,  and 
hovering  like  a  wingless  cherub.  Only  for  a  moment.  The 
eyes,  which  were  turned  upon  Lucian,  were  full  of  reproach. 
His  own  descendant  had  done  this.  Other  descendants  had  ex- 
perienced the  luck  of  the  House  in  one  or  other  misfortunes; 
none,  until  this  man  came,  had  visited  the  family  disasters 
upon  his  ancestors.  Now — now — now — he  was  losing  forever 
the  light  of  day  ;  now  —  now  —  now  —  he  was  sinking  for- 
ever into  an  eternity  of  oblivion.  Only  for  a  moment.  The 
face  sank  back  into  the  flames ;  there  was  a  roaring  and  a  hiss- 
ing, and  the  portraits  were  all  burned  up.  Farewell  forever  to 
the  men  of  sin  and  the  women  of  sorrow  1 

Afterwards,  when  Science  resumed  her  sway,  Lucian  remem- 
bered that  this  reproachful  face — this  detaching  of  the  head 
from  the  canvas  —  must  have  been  a  mere  trick  of  the  imagina- 
tion. But  he  recognized  the  fact  that  on  this  eventful  morning 
his  brain  had  not  been  wholly  under  control,  and  that  the 
things  which  he  saw  and  remembered  and  did  were  not  things 
in  any  sense  scientific. 

The  cremation  of  the  portraits,  by  itself,  was  by  no  means  a 


328  BBYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

scientific  act.  For  how  can  a  picture  do  any  harm  ?  And  how 
can  the  destruction  of  a  picture  do  any  good  ? 

The  flames  fell  lower,  their  fiercer  thirst  assuaged.  Lucian 
kicked  into  the  embers  outlying  bits,  and  they  rose  again. 
Finally  they  died  out,  and  there  was  left  of  this  bonfire  and 
all  that  it  contained  nothing  but  a  heap  of  red  ashes  rapidly 
turning  gray.  Lucian  stood  watching  it.  Then  he  stamped 
his  heel  into  the  ashes,  and  sent  them  flying  in  all  direc- 
tions. 

The  day  was  over.  In  the  twilight  lay  here  and  there  about 
the  narrow  garden  the  red  embers  rapidly  turning  black.  In 
a  few  moments  nothing  at  all  remained  of  that  most  lovely  bon- 
fire.    Then  Lucian  left  the  garden. 


CHAPTER    XL 
THE    NOBLER    AVAV 

"  That  is  done  with,"  said  Lucian,  looking  down  upon  the 
white  ashes.     "  I  have  now  to  go  back  to  the  old  life." 

He  returned  to  his  study.  It  had  grown  suddenly  small — 
absurdly  small.  Yon  see  that  when  a  man  in  imagination  dis- 
penses blessings  from  an  inexhaustible  pile,  everything  about  him 
swells  and  expands ;  his  house  enlarges  and  becomes  a  palace. 
You  cannot  become  Providence  in  person  and  live  in  a  little  back 
room  of  a  house  in  Gi*eat  College  Street.  When  you  cease  to 
play  that  part,  of  course,  your  palace  becomes  once  more  a  room 
fourteen  feet  by  twelve. 

Lucian  looked  around  and  shuddered — but  not  witli  super- 
stitious fear.  His  wrath  was  over  ;  the  madness  which  ended 
in  the  massacre  of  the  forefathers  had  quite  left  him.  "  The 
old  life,"  he  murmured.  And  that  little  shivering  fit  was  caused 
by  the  sudden  fear  that  perhaps  he  had  spoiled  himself  for  the 
old  life  by  this  long  dream  of  boundless  wealtli.  Instead  of 
standing  magnificently  outside  the  world,  driving,  urging,  per- 
suading, pulling,  pushing,  shoving  mankind  to  that  higher  level 
which  mankind  shows  so  little  willingness  to  achieve,  he  was 
going  to  become  once  more  a  member  of  that  company  which 
works  in  the  twilight,  clearing  away  the  tangled  underwood  and 
jungle,  and  draining  the  pestilential  marshes  which  surround  the 
circle  of  human  knowledge. 

He  sat  down  in  his  wooden  chair  and  took  up  his  long-neg- 
lected papers.  There  were  the  books  for  review  ;  there  were  the 
notes  he  had  made;  there  were  the  pages  of  the  unfinished  pa- 
per written  to  explain  and  popularize  the  latest  learned  German's 
latest  theory  about  the  meaning  of  life.  He  turned  over  the 
leaves.     Strange  to  sav,  he  felt  no  disgust  whatever.     The  old 


330  BEYOND    THE    DREAMS    OF    AVARICE 

interest  came  back  to  him ;  he  was  eager  to  be  at  work  upon  it 
once  more.  There  was  a  note  lying  unopened.  It  was  from  the 
hospital.  He  opened  it,  expecting  a  renewal  of  the  disgust  which 
had  recently  filled  his  mind  concerning  the  daily  drudgery  of 
hospital  work.  Quite  the  contrary.  The  note  interested  him 
strangely.  He  must  go  over  to  the  hospital  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible.    Splendid  work,  that  of  hospitals,  for  a  physician. 

He  looked  up  from  the  table.  Before  him  on  the  wall  hung 
his  father's  portrait.  Every  day,  every  time  he  entered  the 
study,  he  saw  this  portrait.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  in  it  the 
Barley  face — the  strong  type  which  came  out  in  every  one  of 
the  sons — the  resolute  face,  the  steady  eyes,  the  firm-set  lips  : 
the  face  of  Calvert  the  robber,  of  Calvert  the  murderer,  of  Cal- 
vert the  maniac,  of  Calvert  the  miser,  of  Calvert  the  money- 
grubber;  the  face  of  every  one,  but  transformed.  There  are  two 
ways  in  which  any  one  of  the  gifts  which  the  gods  give  to  man 
may  be  used.  These  had.  chosen  one  way — the  mean,  the  low, 
the  sordid,  the  profligate,  the  selfish  way.  And  it  was  stam})ed 
upon  their  faces.  His  father,  the  first  of  the  race,  had  chosen 
the  other — the  nobler  way — and  it  was  so  stamped  upon  his 
face.  "  Remember,"  that  face  spoke  to  him,  "  that  I  loved  la- 
bor and  hated  money  getting.  Remember  that  I  worked  not  for 
my  own  profit.  Remember  that  I  hated  crooked  ways.  Remem- 
ber that  I  warned  you  four  months  ago  against  touching  this 
accursed  pile." 

Then  this  strong  man — this  masterful  man — this  obstinate 
man — bowed  his  head,  and  for  very  shame  his  heart  became 
as  the  heart  of  a  little  child. 

This  shame  will  never  leave  him.  For  whatever  a  man  does 
or  says  or  thinks  in  the  course  of  his  earthly  pilgrimage  shall 
stick  to  him  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead,  shall  never  leave  him 
— never.  It  will  be  his  companion  forever;  it  will  be  like  his 
shadow.  Heavens !  what  companions  do  some  of  us  hourly 
create  ! 

The  masterful  man  was  ashamed.  This  was  a  sign,  if  you 
think  of  it,  that  the  dream  of  boundless  wealth  was  gone. 
Only  the  memory  of  it  remained,  and  with  the  memory  the 
shame. 

They  brought  him  a  letter.     It  was  from  Sir  John  Burleigh. 


THE    NOBLER    WAY  331 

"  My  dear  Cousin,"  he  said,  kindly,  "  we  are  deeply  grieved 
to  bear  of  this  discovery,  and  of  its  consequences  to  yourself. 
You  will,  I  am  sure,  bear  it  with  the  fortitude  that  belongs  to 
your  profession.  Should  you  think  of  leaving  England,  let  me 
remind  you  that  you  have  cousins  in  New  Zealand,  who  will  al- 
ways welcome  you  and  your  wife.  My  daughters  desire  to  con- 
vey to  her  their  truest  sympathy  with  her,  and  their  most  sin- 
cere thanks  for  all  the  kindness  she  has  shown  them. 

'*  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  my  son  Herbert,  of  whom  we  hoped 
so  much,  has  informed  us  that  be  is  to  be  very  shortly  received 
into  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  that  he  intends  to  with- 
draw wholly  from  the  world  and  to  retire  to  a  monastery — the 
strictest  that  he  can  find.  It  is  curious  that  the  member  of  our 
family  whom  he  most  resembles  (his  great-grandfather)  was 
also  a  fanatic,  or  even  a  maniac,  in  religion. 

"  Public  business  calls  me  back  to  New  Zealand.  We  return 
with  an  English  connection  and  a  family  which,  at  all  events, 
has  given  rise  to  a  great  deal  of  talk.  I  hope  that  further  dis- 
cussion into  our  family  history  will  never  again  arise.  As  for 
us,  we  have  got  along,  and  we  shall  continue  to  get  along,  with- 
out any  knowledge  of  that  family  or  any  help  from  them.  It  is 
agreed  with  my  girls  that  we  are  to  put  the  genealogy  in  a 
drawer.  We  shall  be  quite  content  with  dating  our  history  from 
the  day  when  my  father  brought  me  with  him  to  the  shores  of 
New  Zealand. 

"Again,  I  hope  and  trust  that  the  loss  of  this  great  estate 
will  be  treated  as  a  thing  of  no  real  importance,  since  the  loss 
of  it  ought  not  in  any  way  to  injure  your  scientific  career. 

"  I  remain,  my  dear  cousin, 

"  Yours  very  faithfully, 

"  John  Burleigh." 

"Strange!"  said  Lucian  ;  "the  man  who  wanted  to  be  the 
grandson  of  a  criminal  —  and  who  was,  of  all  his  familv,  the 
only  one  who  did  not  know  it — has  fallen  into  religious  mania, 
like  his  great-grandfather.  lie  is  to  be  a  monk  of  the  strictest 
rule.     Heavens  I  what  a  race  we  are  !" 

WJiile  he  was  reading  this  note  a  second  time,  a  card  was 
brought  in — "Mr.  James  Pinker." 


332  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

The  visitor  followed  the  card.  "  Dr.  Calvert,"  he  said,  "  or 
Dr.  Burley — whichever  you  wish  to  be  called — " 

"My  name  is  Calvert." 

"  Very  well.  I  saw  the  dreadful  news  in  the  evening  paper. 
It  came  out — perhaps  you  saw  it — " 

*'  I  saw  it  this  morning." 

"  I  tried  to  keep  the  paper  from  Clary — your  cousin,  Clarence 
Burghley — but  he  snatched  it  and  read  it,  and  then — then — " 

"  What  happened  then  ?" 

"  I've  had  the  most  awful  night  with  him.  I  shall  never  for- 
get it — never.  '  Now,'  he  said,  '  there's  an  end  of  everything. 
There  will  be  no  compensation  for  me.  And  I've  lost  my  voice 
and  my  ear  and  my  powers.'  So  he  sat  and  gasped  with  a 
white  face.  And  I  certainly  did  feel  low,  too — because,  you  see, 
we'd  been  arguing  it  out — about  the  compensation  ;  we  were 
undecided  whether  to  mate  it  a  million  or  a  million  and  a  half 
— and  to  tell  the  truth.  Dr.  Calvert,  neither  of  us  had  tried  to 
do  anything  for  the  last  fortnight  except  to  pile  up  the  case  for 
compensation." 

"Well,  Mr.  Pinker?" 

"Presently  he  got  up,  saying  nothing,  and  went  into  his  bed- 
room. I  waited  and  listened,  but  I  heard  nothing.  So  I  got 
frightened  and  went  in  after  him.  He  was  sitting  with  his  col- 
lar off  and  his  neck  unbuttoned,  with  a  razor  in  his  hand.  I 
made  for  him  and  got  him  to  drop  the  beastly  thing.  'I 
couldn't  do  it.  Jemmy,'  he  said.  '  It  hurts  too  much.'  Clary 
never  did  like  things  that  hurt.  'x\nd  the  horrid  mess  it  would 
make.'  Clary  can't  bear  messes.  '  But  I  must  kill  myself,'  he 
said.  '  I  can't  live  any  longer — I  can't  starve — I  must  die.'  So 
I  dragged  him  back  and  made  him  sit  down.  But  he  wouldn't 
listen.  I  fell  asleep  about  two  in  the  morning,  and  I  was 
awakened  by  a  noise.  He  had  got  a  rope  round  his  neck  and 
was  hauling  at  it.  Lord  !  what  a  night  it  was !  I  got  him 
down,  and  he  owned  that  it  hurt  horribly,  and  I  dragged  him 
into  the  sitting-room  again,  and  made  him  drink  a  glass  of 
brandy.     Then  he  began  to  cry." 

"  Well  ?" 

"He  dropped  off  asleep  in  his  chair  at  last,  and  slept  till  nine 
o'clock  this  morning,  and  then  he  woke  up,  and  then — it's  the 


THE    NOBLER    WAY  333 

most  wonderful  tiling  possible — he  actually  got  up  and  laughed. 
'Jeramy,'  he  said,  'since  there's  no  more  chance  of  anything, 
let  us  go  back  to  the  old  work.'  So  he  sat  down  to  the  piano 
and  rattled  off  one  of  the  songs — a  new  song,  '  Wanted,  a  Me- 
thusaleh  !  To  tell  us  how  they  kept  it  up  ' — with  all  his  spirit 
and  fun  come  back  to  him.  I  declare  1  could  have  cried  to  see 
Clary  himself  again.  I  believe  I  did  cry."  Certainly  tears 
stood  in  his  honest  eyes. 

"He  has  come  back  to  his  right  mind  ;  I  am  glad.  So  have 
I,  Mr.  Pinker.  We  have  all  been  off  our  heads  over  this  damned 
money." 

"  I  came  round.  Dr.  Calvert,  just  to  ask  if  you  were  going  to 
set  aside  the  will  ?  I  believe  you  could,  if  you  chose.  Then 
the  compensation  question  will  begin  all  over  again." 

"Good  heavens,  man!  Do  you  want  to  drive  us  all  mad 
once  more  ?  Set  the  will  aside  ?  I  would  not  move  a  little  fin- 
ger to  set  the  will  aside." 

"  Thank  goodness !  Then  I  can  go  back  to  Clary.  I  shall 
make  a  song  about  it.  You  won't  mind,  I  hope.  It  '11  be  sung 
in  the  highest  circles  only.  It  '11  be  rather  vulgar,  because  we 
move  in  nothing  outside  the  very  smartest  circles  —  that  is, 
Clary  does.     My  sphere  is  down  below,  in  the  grill-room." 

So  Jemmy  Pinker  went  away. 

Lucian  set  himself  again  to  his  work.  But  now  his  thoughts 
turned  to  Margaret,  and  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  thinking  what 
he  should  do,  and  whether  he  should  go  to  her,  or  first  write  to 
her,  or  wait  for  her.  But  another  visitor  came  to  him  —  this 
time  Ella,  who  had  spoken  her  mind  with  so  much  freedom; 
Ella,  who  had  rebuked  his  counsels  and  derided  his  schemes 
and  exposed  his  selfishness.  Now  she  came  laughing  and  run- 
ning and  holding  out  both  her  hands. 

"  Cousin  Lucian,"  she  cried,  "  I  congratulate  you  !  Let  me 
look  at  you.  Oh,  what  a  change  !"  She  became  suddenly  se- 
rious. "You  have  lost  the  gloom  of  your  selfish  dream — the 
gloom  that  you  thought  was  firmness,  and  was  only  horrible 
persistence  in  evil-doing;  it  has  gone.  Tell  me,  Lucian  — 
tell  mc  that  you  are  not  regretting  the  loss  of  the  dreadful 
thing." 

"Just  at  the  present  moment  I  do  not.     But,  Ella,  I  can't  an- 


384  BEYOND  THE  DREAMS  OF  AVARICE 

swer  for  what  I  shall  think  about  it  to-morrow.  Just  go  on  say- 
ing that  it  is  a  dreadful  thing." 

"  Horrible,  hateful,  shameful,  sinful,  polluted — " 

"  Thank  you,  Ella.  Adjectives,  like  alcohol,  sometimes 
strengthen  a  patient." 

"  Isn't  it  romantic  ?  There  you  were,  only  yesterday,  on  the 
top  of  a  great — great — gallows — yes,  gallows — and  you  thought 
it  was  a  pinnacle — all  of  gold,  with  the  sun  shining  on  your 
face  and  making  it  as  yellow  as  the  gold,  and  your  chin  stuck 
out — so — and  the  devil  beside  you,  and  the  people  down  below 
crying  out,  like  boys,  to  begin  the  scramble.  And  now  here 
you  are,  just  on  a  level  with  the  rest  of  us,  and  tlie  gallows  is 
surmounted  by  the  crown  of  Great  ]]ritain  and  Ireland  !" 

"  It's  highly  romantic,"  said  the  hero  of  this  romance  with 
a  little  grimace.  "  Please  put  in  that  all  the  world  is  laughing 
at  me." 

"  No — they  don't  laugh  ;  they  only  wonder  liow  you  feel." 

"  I  have  been  in  the  clouds,  Ella,  and  it  is  rather  difficult,  you 
see,  to  begin  the  simple  life  again." 

"  The  simple  life,  he  calls  it."  No  one  could  be  more  con- 
temptuous than  this  young  person,  so  straight  and  direct  of 
speech.  "  The  simple  life  !  What  is  the  man  talking  about  ? 
Why,  the  simple  life  is  tlie  life  with  no  work  to  do — simple  and 
contemptible.  That  is  what  you  were  desiring — you — you — you 
misa-able  sinner !  It  is  the  complex  life  that  you  have  returned 
to,  filled  with  every  good  thing  that  can  keep  your  brain  at  work. 
Simple  life,  he  calls  it !  This  it  is  to  have  been  rich — only  for  a 
week  or  two." 

"  Yes,"  Lucian  replied,  meekly.  "  I  shall  get  right  again,  pres- 
ently, perhaps." 

"  Of  course,"  Ella  continued,  critically.  "  I  am  different  from 
the  rest  of  the  world.  I've  been  through  it  all  myself.  We  un- 
derstand each  other,  don't  we  ?  First  of  all  " — she  took  Lucian's 
seat  and  leaned  back  with  her  elbows  on  the  arms,  speaking  as 
a  professor — "  first  of  all  was  the  dream  of  unbounded  posses- 
sions. It  seemed  splendid — it  was  like  standing  on  a  great  plain 
— say  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie — and  thinking  that  in  whatever 
direction  you  walked  all  the  land  was  your  own.  Next,  that  it 
would  be  so  grand — so  grand  to  turn  the  broad  plain  into  a  fair 


THE    NOBLER    WAY  335 

garden  filled  with  happy  people.     You  had  that  dream,  didn't 


you 


2" 


"  Something  like  it." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  So  did  I.  You  were  going  to  hnve  a 
grand  college.  So  was  I —  Oh  !  we've  been  through  exactly 
the  same  experience.  Then — oh  !  first  of  all  it  was  to  be  every- 
thing for  the  world  and  nothing  for  ourselves — pure  altruism — 
wasn't  it  ?  Then — by  degrees — one  began  to  feel — eh  ?  I  am 
sure  you  felt  it,  Lucian,  because  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes.  It  seemed 
as  if  parting  with  everything  would  deprive  one  of  power — one 
wanted  to  keep  the  power,  all  the  power — so  we  began  to  think 
we  would  part  with  no  more  than  the  income  and  keep  the  prin- 
cipal.    Did  you  feel  like  that,  Lucian  ?" 

"Child,  you  shall  be  taken  away  and  burned  for  a  witch. 
You  are  just  too  late,"  he  said,  glancing  out  of  the  window,  "  un- 
fortunately, a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  late  for  my  bonfire.  Oth- 
erwise, you  could  have  sat  in  the  cradle." 

"  /Vnd  then — then — oh,  Lucian,  let  us  lay  our  heads  together 
and  blush  for  shame — you  began — I  began — to  think  how  the 
power  would  be  increased  tenfold  if  the  money  was  increased 
tenfold.  And  you  made  calculations — I  have  seen  you — show- 
ing how  the  millions  could  be  doubled  and  quadrupled  long 
before  you  would  be  an  old  man.  And  so  there  was  creeping 
over  you,  faster  and  faster,  the  very  spirit  of  your  grandfather 
the  money-lender,  and  that  of  his  father  the  miser.  Lucian, 
is  this  true  ?" 

"  It  is  true,  Ella." 

"  Nobody  knows  except  me,  and  I  only  know  because  I  have 
gone  through  it  my«elf.  Lucian  !  What  I  am  going  to  say  is 
not  the  language  you  talk — but — you  understand  it —  I  said 
the  Lord  would  break  you  up.  Well,  the  Lord  has  broken 
you  up.  Your  madness  is  driven  out  of  you.  You  ought — 
but  you  won't — to  go  down  on  your  knees  and  thank  the 
Lord." 

"  Ella,"  he  laughed,  "  I  have  taken  a  very  serious  step.  I 
have  burned  the  portraits,  frames  and  all." 

"  Burned  the  portraits  ?     Why  ?" 

"  I  want  every  record,  everything  connected  with  the  family 
history,  to  be  destroyed.    I  have  burned  all  the  papers  that  were 


336  BEYOND    THE   DREAMS    OF    AVAlilCE 

in  my  hands.  AVlio  knows  now,  besides  ourselves,  the  history 
of  these  people  V 

Ella  shivered.  "  Oh  !  You  have  really  burned  the  history — 
my  history?     And  no  one  else  will  ever  know." 

"  I  have  done  more.  I  went  up-stairs  and  brought  down  all 
the  toys  and  dolls  and  children's  things  that  haunted  Margaret. 
They  are  burned  too.  I  would  have  burned  the  clothes  in  the 
bedrooms,  but  there  wasn't  time.  So  I  gave  everything  to  the 
servants  on  condition  of  the  things  leaving  the  house  within  an 
hour.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  scrap  of  anything  except  some 
of  the  furniture  that  can  remind  us  of  the  people  called  Burley 
who  once  lived  in  this  house.  I  believe  their  name  was  Burlev. 
Some  one  told  me  so.  There  was  some  talk  about  money. 
My  own  name,  you  know,  is  Calvert." 

"  My  name  is  Burley,"  said  Ella,  thoughtfully,  "  and  I  rather 
think  that  I  am  in  some  distant  way  connected  with  a  family 
which  once  lived  in  this  house.  But  I  don't  want  to  hear  any- 
thing more  about  them.  I  have  understood  that  they  were  a  dis- 
reputable set.  One  of  them  actually  ran  away  Avith  his  master's 
young  wife  !  Oh  !  a  dreadful  family.  But  high-spirited,  that  poor 
old  pauper  said.  Well,  Lucian,  I  am  glad  that  all  the  things 
are  burned ;  and  now,  I  hope,  everything  is  to  go  on  as  usual." 

"  jEverything  ?" 

"Everything.  Without  explanations,  because  we  all  under- 
stand each  other.  Margaret  will  have  no  more  visions  of 
mournful  mothers  and  weeping  wives  and  doleful  daughters, 
and  you  will  have  no  more  dead  ancestors  calling  and  tempting 
and  suggesting.  Oh  !  it  is  so  ridiculous  that  dead  people 
should  be  allowed  to  go  on  as  they  have  been  going  on  in  this 
house.  Such  things  haven't  happened  with  our  people  since 
they  burned  the  witches." 

"  Everything  as  it  was  ?  Everything,  Ella  ?  You  are  charged 
to  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  Everything.  Aunt  Lucinda  and  I  are  coming  back  to  stay 
with  you  for  a  bit,  if  you  will  have  us.  I've  found  work.  I'm 
going  to  lecture  in  a  ladies'  college  on  English  and  American 
literature,  and  afterwards  in  halls  and  places  on  American  in- 
stitutions. I  believe  that  I  am  going  to  found  another  great 
Burley  fortune,  in  which  case — " 


THE     NOBLER    WAV  337 

"  Well,  my  cousin  ?" 

"  You  will  join  the  great  fortune  that  you  will  have  made 
with  mine  ;  and  then — then — we  will — what  shall  we  do  ?  For 
yours  will  be  new  stores  of  science ;  and  mine  —  what  will  be 
mine  ?  I  know  not ;  but  this  I  know,  that  a  true  woman  must 
needs  become  a  rich  woman,  and  the  truer  a  woman  is  to  her- 
self and  her  womanhood  the  richer  she  becomes." 

"Yes,  Ella,"  he  said,  with  meekness. 

"  Oh  !" — she  gave  him  her  hand — "  Brother  Commander-in- 
Chief  !  The  Only  Substitute  for  Providence  !  Brother  Dreamer  ! 
Brother  Archangel !  Brother  Miser !  we  have  sinned  and  suf- 
fered.    Now  you  shall  go  to  work  again  with  a  new  heart." 

She  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "  Margaret," 
she  said,  changing  her  voice  and  dropping  into  actualities, 
"  told  me  she  would  have  tea  ready  by  half-past  five,  and  that 
she  would  ring  the  bell  when  it  was  ready.  There  is  the  bell. 
Let  us  go  up-stairs,  Lucian." 


THE    END 


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